


your love is a waiting game

by alnima



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Also there is a brief instance that could be described as a panic attack, Angst, Barebacking, Body Paint, Colors, Lots and lots of mentions of colors, M/M, Minor Niall Horan/Zayn Malik, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Painting, Pining Zayn, Rimming, Sexual Content, harry is an asshole, unhealthy relationship, zayn is infatuated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alnima/pseuds/alnima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been four days without Harry and Zayn’s feeling brave. He loves him, but he’s not waiting for him, not anymore. If Harry can’t love him – <em>won’t </em>love him – then he’ll find someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your love is a waiting game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writeivywrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeivywrite/gifts).



> I was asked to write 'something canon (this au, sorry) where Zayn's got feelings and Harry won't commit, so Zayn does...to someone else'. And well, this happened. I really hope that this fulfills your request. I struggled a lot formulating an idea for this, threw a bunch of stuff out the window, had a mini breakdown, and then I came back to my original idea while lying to myself that this is a brand new idea. 
> 
> Also, the brief instance that could be described as a panic attack, it's a really short bit and it was not intended to be a panic attack, but there is some panicking. So, I just wanted to let it be known, just in case that might affect someone. 
> 
> Special thank you to [Jen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pornyziallfeels) for the beta and for putting up with all my self doubt and my ramblings where I referred to all of my ideas as "so fucking stupid". She endures my self-induced panic more than anyone, so she's the best. Despite her lovely beta job, all remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Title from Banks 'Waiting Game'.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know or own anyone. This work is my own and it is not featured on any other site, nor does anyone have my permission to repost it in its entirety. Thank you!!!

Harry’s breathing is blue, almost tranquil in the relative darkness of the room.

Zayn mixes cobalt with white along the edges of Harry’s shoulder blade, trying to capture the way that he breathes in his paint.

The sight washes over him, rolling through him like waves that break against the shore and laps at your feet, gently anchoring you to the ground as the sand shifts the Earth beneath your feet.

Zayn stares down at the boy lying next to him - completely naked, only covered by the bed sheet draped around his waist, the one that Zayn pulled over him before he got out his paints - and settles against Harry’s side so he can map out the patterns of his breathing, the rhythm of his lungs. Zayn can feel the calming, soothing energy escaping Harry’s body like the puffs of air drifting out of his parted lips.

Harry always falls asleep after sex and Zayn always paints him, using Harry’s body as a canvas as he tries to study Harry’s inner and outer workings by dragging paint across his bare skin.

Tonight it’s his back, Harry having fallen asleep on his stomach, giving Zayn access to more skin than he’s had in a while.

Three nights ago, he painted Harry’s ankle, soft curves of green and gold, colors that picked up the fear that Zayn had seen in Harry’s eyes right before he kissed him, his eyes giving away something before it was gone, only to disappear when he closed his eyes and moaned into Zayn’s mouth, tugging at his hair and pulling the shirt off his body right before he fucked him into the couch, fast and aggressive but also needy, judging by the way that Harry gripped onto Zayn’s hips a little tighter, touched him a little more, and breathed his named out in a way that Zayn hadn’t heard before.

The green and gold blended together into a murky mixture of muted browns, the little bits of unknown that left Zayn feeling powerless as he painted Harry’s body.

Tonight was the opposite of that; Harry took his time, sucking marks into the soft skin of Zayn’s inner thigh until he was withering beneath him. Harry drew everything out; doing everything he could to make it last, fucking Zayn slow and deep.

There was something about it that attracted Zayn to the draw of air in and out of Harry’s lungs, using the white paint on his fingers and mixing it with yellow, softening it down until he drags it through the blue gradient, highlighting the sharp points of Harry’s snores, mixing it in with the soothing blue gradient of Harry’s quiet sighs.

Zayn’s pouring more white out on Harry’s skin when he feels him waking up, the energy in the room changing as Harry’s breath picks up, no longer weighted yet shallow, instead it’s light and quick, coming out louder than it had been before, not as loud as his snoring, but it’s elevated nonetheless. He glances up and sees that Harry’s eyes have opened, but he doesn’t move, he let’s Zayn drag his fingers dipped in white across his back, breaking up the chunks of blues and yellows.

He paints until his fingers are caked to the second knuckle and Harry’s back is nothing but masses of blue and yellow and white and the smallest traces of green where the colors bleed together. Zayn doesn’t say anything as he finishes, just slides further back and watches as Harry sits up slowly, smiling sleepily at Zayn before he leans forward and kisses him softly. Zayn watches as he walks into the en suite, listens as the shower starts, and waits until he sees Harry step inside before he gathers up his paints and starts putting them away.

Harry will let Zayn paint him, but he won’t let Zayn join him to watch as he washes it all away. That’s not something that Zayn’s allowed to do.

When Zayn looks up, he sees Harry standing under the spray of water, head tilted up as the water flows down his neck. Zayn observes as the colors wash away, colored droplets gliding down his tanned legs until they’re gone, disappearing down the drain, all traces of Zayn’s touch going with them.

>><<

Zayn’s sitting at his kitchen table, coffee mug in hand when Harry steps out of his bedroom wearing one of the outfits that he keeps at Zayn’s place. The stash of clothes started out as an accident when one night after the sex, the paint, and the shower, Harry didn’t want to change back into the clothes that he wore to Zayn’s place nor did he want to wear anything of Zayn’s - their taste in clothing is too different, everyone would know that he’s not wearing something of his own if he was seen in Zayn’s clothes. So the next time he came over, he brought an outfit, but one outfit became two and then three until finally, he had three drawers of clothes in Zayn’s dresser and a fourth of his closet.

Zayn never said anything; he just let Harry fill up the empty spaces until they belonged to him, not wanting to say anything about it. He didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that bringing clothes to someone else’s apartment wasn’t how people behaved during a strictly benefit based relationship. Not like Harry or Zayn ever really called it that, but he wasn’t brainless or naïve enough to believe that this was anything else, at least not outside of what he hoped would happen between them. They don’t go out together in public; their relationship is confined to the walls of Zayn’s apartment, a sign that tells Zayn everything he needs to know. 

Despite that knowledge, Zayn can feel his tongue getting heavy with the desire to ask Harry to go out into the real world with him. Something felt different about their time together; a shift in the way that things were before and a part of Zayn feels hopeful. So he takes a tentative sip of his coffee, watches as Harry slips on his brown boots and then says: “What are you doing tonight?”

Harry lifts his head up slowly, flicking his curls out of his face and shrugs. “Not sure. I might stop by Cal’s for a while, just depends on what’s going on with everyone else, I guess.” He sounds nonchalant, like Zayn’s offering him a normal conversation instead of something more.

“So you don’t really have anything planned?” Zayn asks, taking another careful sip of his coffee and watching as Harry looks at him, studying him carefully. It’s not everyday that Zayn wants to know what Harry is doing outside of this apartment, but Zayn’s hoping that after the soft kisses and careful touches that they shared just a few short hours ago will give Zayn a fighting chance to ask Harry to do something with him, something that doesn’t involve naked kisses in the dark.

“I don’t really have anything planned, ever,” Harry clarifies, stepping forward and stealing the cup from Zayn’s hands, and taking a drink of his own. “I just tend to do whatever pops up. Why do you ask?”

Zayn waits until Harry sets the cup back down on the wooden table before he says, “I was thinking that maybe you and I could do something, like we could go out for once.” Harry laughs, not unkindly, but the sound penetrates Zayn’s skin, seeping through his bones and drifting through his blood until it runs cold. “It could be anything you wanted, like a movie or dinner.”

“Zayn,” Harry says and his tone sounds like one of a parent getting ready to let down their child, not one of someone who has just shared the most intimate act that two people can share, not one that sounds like he’s going to be agreeing. “You know that won’t happen.” 

“Why not? It’s just a movie. You go see films all the time with your friends, why won’t you go to one with me?” Zayn asks, trying not to shrink in on himself as Harry stares down at him, frustration evident in his eyes.

Harry looks at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed before he shakes his head. “No. I really should get going. I’ll see you later.”

Zayn can feel the panic bubbling up in his throat. He’s crossed a line and he knows it, one that he’s not supposed to, one that he’s told himself not to cross every time that Harry leaves his apartment. “Harry, please wait. Can’t you just stay for dinner?” He asks, scrambling to get out of his chair, rushing to follow Harry to the door. “No one will know that you’re here. Just stay, please.”

“Zayn, don’t be like this,” Harry says, his shoulders tense and jaw set. He’s staring at the point beyond Zayn’s shoulder, not at him. “Don’t do this.” His tone is harshly pleading and Zayn feels like he’s been slapped.

“I’m not doing anything,” Zayn cries, reaching forward to push his door shut since Harry has pulled it open. “I just don’t understand. I thought that maybe you’d want to do something with me for once, something that doesn’t involve my apartment or my bed or our bodies. You’re out every night, every night with crowds of people and all I’m asking is for you to spend one of them with me. Can’t you give me that? It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Zayn bites his lip and looks at Harry, trying to keep the ‘it doesn’t have to mean anything to you’ hidden from his features. But Harry’s eyes are scanning his face now and he knows that he’s not going to be able to hide it.

“Don’t make this something that it’s not,” Harry says, sighing. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Zayn’s cheek, squeezing his arm before he slips out of Zayn’s apartment leaving mixed signals in his wake. 

Zayn stares at the door for a moment, feeling that heavy, weighted sensation drifting through his body, the same one that he felt when he knew that Harry was going to let him down, only this time intensified. He doesn’t know how long he stares at the door hoping that Harry will come back until he finally backs away and with shaky hands drops his coffee cup into the sink, watching the brown liquid disappear completely before he heads to his room, climbing back into bed.

There are things that he knows he’s not supposed to do. And he was asking for Harry to leave his apartment the second he opened his mouth, but that doesn’t stop the sinking feeling in his stomach, the prickling behind his eyes and deep shaky breaths that escape from his parted lips, so unlike the mixture of blues and yellows and whites that Harry was breathing into the air not that long ago.

>><< 

Zayn has rules, guidelines that he’s created for himself when it comes to this thing that he has going on with Harry, because Harry has never and will never give Zayn any clues about how to keep him, how to make him stay. So Zayn has to remember to do certain things if he doesn’t want to scare Harry off.

It’s not much, but it’s important to Zayn that he remembers them.

Like, it’s always Harry that initiates things, knocking on Zayn’s door at any time of day or night, waiting for Zayn to open it so he can crowd into his space, press his back against the wall and kiss him hard before leading them to Zayn's bedroom. 

That’s how his visits start, always.

Sometimes he’ll stay after he showers, making something to eat, engage in light conversation when he needs to get away from the rest of the world, but most of the time, he waits until Zayn is finished painting him, showers off all traces of Zayn and then leaves. It’s rare that Zayn is able to keep him for more than a couple hours, not without lack of trying of course, because Harry can never resist the pull, this urge inside of him to keep moving.

He can’t sit still, so Zayn can never keep him for too long, not like he wants, not like Harry gets to keep him.

Zayn hates him for it sometimes, hates how easy it is for Harry to walk out the door without so much as a glance, when Zayn has never had the strength to walk away. He doesn’t hate him enough to ever tell him no, couldn’t ever hate him.

He can never do anything that might jeopardize Harry’s return, because this is the only situation that Harry seems to want Zayn in.

Zayn is Harry’s secret, the one thing that he doesn’t want the rest of the world to find out about. Zayn thinks it’s because he’s different from the rest of the people in Harry’s life. He wouldn't fit in. He doesn’t care about vintage or runway shows or being surrounded by people who just don’t give a damn about you. That’s Harry’s thing, the constant need to be around people and to interact with them. 

Zayn believes that he has some kind of fear of being alone, always choosing to sleep at random people’s houses, on their couch, instead of being at his own place, the one that Zayn helped him pick out one rare afternoon that Harry stayed instead of left. 

But Zayn’s not allowed to mention that, not allowed to bring up the things that Harry does outside of his apartment, not because Harry has forbidden him, but because Zayn doesn’t want to know what Harry does when he’s not with him. That’s the one guideline that he’s made for himself, something to keep him a little sane.

Zayn knows that it’s silly to set up rules just to be with someone, but they’re precautions, ways to make sure that he doesn’t lose Harry, because that’s the one thing that he can’t have happen. It’s not easy wanting more than Harry is willing to give, but he’d rather be Harry’s secret than Harry’s nothing.

>><<

The first time that Zayn met Harry was during university, his third year to be exact. He had signed up for a figure drawing class, wanting to advance his technique and to learn more about the human body in an artistic way. His own drawings were stiff, too many harsh, straight lines instead of soft curves. He needed to work on it, so he signed up for the class and tried not to regret his decision when the first three nude models were older woman that looked like his grandmother, their bodies round, their skin loose and filled with so many lines. It took him ages to realize that their bodies are beautiful to the artistic eye. There was one in particular with her hair pulled up into a bun, pinned down to her head that helped him the most. She had to pose next to a pedestal, forcing Zayn to rework his lines, forcing him to look at her body for what it was, shapes and shades and lines, a depth to it that he never noticed before.

It was the first time that Zayn felt as though he really understood the human form and the variety that came from the old woman with the wrinkled skin to the man with the stomach that draped over the tops of his thighs to the girl that laid on her back with her head tilted back, exposing her neck, all of them challenged him in different ways and taught him how to push his drawing.

The class was really starting to pay off and Zayn looked forward to the challenge that presented itself twice a week for him until the day he walked in and saw a mess of curls and a long, toned back sitting in the center of the room, a clean white cloth draped over his waist. He was hunched over; his spine arched as he looked at his phone. Zayn narrowly missed running into tables and classmates as he stumbled to his seat, unable to take his eyes off the boy in the center of the room.

He had just started seeing the human form as art but when the boy in the center of class was instructed to drop his cloth and stand up, letting the sheet pool at his feet with his hands tucked behind his back, Zayn had gone back to where he’d started, unable to find the shapes and the edges, his hand fumbling across the paper as he tried to draw out the boy’s collarbones. His sketches were nothing more than knots of lines on the paper. He couldn’t get the shading right, couldn’t figure out the texture of his muscles, the way that his biceps flexed under the strain of not being able to move for such a long period of time.

They went through five different poses that class, each one producing a mass of sketches that Zayn wouldn't let anyone see, even to this day. 

Zayn had stuck around after class, taking his time cleaning up after himself while Harry got dressed in the middle of the room, not even bothering to use the little closet in the back designed for the models to have some privacy. Harry had watched him with a hint of a smile on his face, nodding in Zayn’s direction when they made eye contact.

They didn’t talk for long, Harry had to run off to catch his own class at another school across town, but they exchanged numbers and Zayn spent that entire night trying to map out the planes of Harry’s skin.

From then on, things progressed as quickly as Harry would allow them to. 

They met at Zayn's dorms, he had a single and it gave them the privacy that would soon become the basis of their relationship. It gave them the ability to hide away from the rest of the world. 

It took three months, but eventually when Zayn pulled open his dorm door, he was shoved back into the wall, Harry kissing him desperately until they were stumbling onto his bed, tugging at each other’s clothing.

They didn’t have sex that night, but it wasn't long until that to become the norm between them, fucking and then hanging out in the safe confines of Zayn’s dorm room. And somewhere between the sex and the conversation, Zayn found that his heart had slowly started to belong to the other boy.

Harry had always made it clear that it’s not anything really, just two people letting off a little steam and caving into the undeniable chemistry of their bodies. But he’d never call it anything else. It was just them, just Harry and Zayn. It didn’t have a label and it didn’t need one, because they weren’t anything.

They lost touch after graduation and Zayn tried to forget about it, and was doing a damn good job of it until he ran into Harry at a bar while he was out with his friend Danny, celebrating his birthday. He was four shots deep, wanting to escape to the toilet when a familiar face was suddenly crowding into his space, smiling wickedly, his fingers curled around the back of Zayn’s neck.

They fell back into their familiar routine, except this time it was in Zayn’s apartment where the two locked themselves away for a few hours until Harry disappeared, leaving Zayn behind.

It wasn’t as easy as it was during college, Harry was firmer about the things that he didn’t want and Zayn was lost in his feelings, but agreed to it all without hesitation.

Two years later, and it’s the same as it was during college, two boys having sex, all controlled by one while the other waits patiently for it to move from nothing into something.

>><<

Zayn’s sitting at the kitchen table, sketchbook spread out across the wooden surface, pens in hand while Harry putters around the kitchen, working on whatever food he has being cooked in the pans lining the stove top. He’s chatting idly about the things he did with Cal earlier in the day, mumbling in that lazy drawl of his about meeting in the park with some other people for drinks. Zayn’s not listening, not really. He couldn’t give a damn about who Harry spends his time with when he’s not here, especially today when there is a bright red love bite on Harry’s neck that’s glaring at Zayn from across the room, taunting him.

Zayn’s not allowed to leave marks. He’s not allowed to leave traces of himself on Harry’s body.

Someone else, someone other than Zayn, left the love bite on Harry’s skin.

Zayn sees red. Harsh, violent, blinding red.

“Isn’t that funny?” Harry asks, tasting a bit of something on a spoon, his back turned towards Zayn.

“Hilarious,” Zayn replies with an eye roll, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly, glancing over his shoulder to give Zayn a once over. “It was pretty good, I mean, Cal isn’t usually the most fun nor is he a funny guy, usually just stuck behind his camera, kind of like you and that notebook, but it was hilarious when he went into the toilet and came out in that body suit. No one was expecting it.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” Zayn says, working the pen across his paper in quick, sharp lines. He’s not drawing anything other than the frustrated energy rolling off his body in waves. “Sounds like a real laugh that Cal.”

Zayn hears the wooden spoon hitting the side of the pot and glances up to see Harry beating some of the water off before he sets it down on the counter. When Harry turns towards Zayn, he says: “Like I said, he’s not normally the funniest guy around, but it was nice to see him doing something for a laugh.”

“Harry, no offense, but I couldn’t give a damn about anything that Cal had to say.” And he wishes instantly that he could suck the words back into his mouth, because he doesn’t want Harry to know that he’s annoyed. He doesn’t want Harry to know that he’s seeing red with flashes of green, jealousy creeping through veins. “Sorry, um. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Is there something bothering you, Zayn?”

“Nope,” Zayn says a bite to his voice. “Just looks like you had a little more fun than just witnessing him in a body suit. Am I right?”

Harry looks at him, his eyebrows pulling together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Zayn, but yeah, we obviously had more fun than just that moment. There were seven people at the park and we were there for four hours. I wouldn’t have shit to tell you if that’s all that happened.”

“That’s funny,” Zayn says, dropping his pen down on the paper. “You can tell me about a body suit and how Ed nearly fell into the lake trying to feed the geese but not before one chased him half across the park, trying to bite him on the ass, but you can’t tell me about the other kinds of fun that seems to have been had.”

Harry looks at him and Zayn uses the eye contact to challenge him, willing him to try and deny it, but Harry mostly looks confused. He looks like he doesn’t understand what it is that Zayn is trying to get at. At least until Zayn flicks his gaze down to the mark on his neck, staring at it for a moment before locking eyes with Harry again.

“That’s none of your business,” Harry mutters, glaring at Zayn for a moment.

“I think it’s my business when you show up at my apartment while I’m gone, start cooking me a meal when we all know why you’re really here.”

“Why am I here, Zayn?” Harry challenged, voice pitched low as if daring Zayn to say what he really means.

“Once wasn’t enough for you today.”

Harry’s eyes flash red for a moment, the same harsh, violent, blinding red that’s consuming Zayn. Zayn can see it rolling off Harry like fog, spreading across the room slowly. He realizes, belatedly, that Harry had been yellow before that, bright like the sun until Zayn had said something to change it.

Harry doesn’t say anything as he turns towards the stove, shuts the burners off and then retreats from the kitchen, slowly walking away from Zayn.

Zayn scrambles to get out of the chair, tripping over his feet as he chases after Harry, reaching him in time to see that his boots are back on and he’s shoving his phone and wallet into his back pocket.

“Harry, don’t go,” Zayn says, stepping forward and gripping onto Harry’s arm. “I crossed a line. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Zayn, let go of me,” Harry mumbles, trying to shake out of Zayn’s grasp. Zayn waits, gripping onto Harry’s arm. He’s barely holding on and Harry could fight out of it if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Zayn.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Zayn says, sliding his hand down from Harry’s bicep to his wrist. “I’m sorry. Just don’t go, all right? You’re in there making a nice dinner and I wouldn’t know the first thing about fixing it if you go. Please stay. Don’t go. Okay? Just don’t go.”

“Zayn, I shouldn’t be here right now. You obviously have some shit going on, and.”

“No, I’m fine. Sorry. I’ve just got a headache and it’s making me irritable. Really. I’m sorry.”

Harry sighs but doesn’t move, just stands there and stares down at Zayn’s floor for a moment before he takes his shoes off again, shrugging out of Zayn’s hold to head back to the stove, turning his back on Zayn and fiddling around with the burners before he gets back to work.

They eat together in silence, Harry still angry about the things that Zayn said. And Zayn wishing that he could take it back.

>><<

Harry gets over his initial anger, at least Zayn thinks so when a couple hours later he’s lying on his back, propped up on his pillows with Harry gripping his shoulders, head thrown back and rocking in circles on Zayn’s dick. Harry’s cursing above him, muttering quietly as Zayn thrusts into him, digging his fingers into Harry’s hips, thumbs resting on the edges of the leaves tattooed on his body while he tries to avoid looking at the glaring red mark on Harry’s neck.

Zayn’s not allowed to leave marks, he’s tried but Harry has always pushed him off and changed the angle of things, sucking his own marks into Zayn’s skin until he forgets what it was he wanted to do. Zayn didn’t bother trying tonight, gave that up a long time ago, but he pressed his thumb into the mark when Harry kissed him earlier, pressing down on it until Harry bit his lip, exerting the same physical pain back on Zayn.

“Zayn, you gotta… Fuck, you gotta,” Harry says, twisting his hips in little circles that leave Zayn’s head spinning in the same pattern.

Zayn nods his head and flips them over, forcing Harry onto his back, pulling his leg up and fucks into him, his hips snapping forward rapidly. Harry’s head is thrown back, gripping onto Zayn’s forearms.

He sees silver and white when he comes, dropping down to groan into Harry’s neck. He hears him moan out his name from underneath him, clamping down around him and breathing heavily as he comes down.

Zayn pulls out and uses the bed sheet to clean off his stomach, wiping off Harry’s as well before he tosses it down onto the ground. He’ll get a clean one later. He’s not worried about it right now.

“That was amazing,” Harry says around a yawn, already grabbing at Zayn’s duvet, pulling it up to his chest. Zayn shakes his head, smiling at him fondly, because they’ve been having sex for years, but it’s always surprising how quickly Harry falls asleep afterward, his body slipping into unconsciousness as he reaches for Zayn’s hand, intertwining their fingers for a fleeting moment.

Zayn sits on the bed and holds Harry’s hand for a while, staring at the boy next to him as he sleeps. He’s laying on his back tonight, his head turned to the side, exposing the long expanse of his neck. Some of the muscles are protruding, sticking out slightly from the angle, some of the veins present as Harry lets out a truly awful snore, but Zayn can only see the red of the mark on his neck.

As the night wore on, the mark has taken on a purplish hue but Zayn still sees crimson. It’s pouring out of his skin, white-hot anger and jealousy oozing out of him in shades of red.

He gets his paints out carefully and quietly, mindful of sleeping boy next to him, who doesn’t mind that Zayn paints him, but does mind being woken. Zayn lays them out carefully, shoving away everything but the red and the black, opening them slowly as his eyes map out the irregular shape of the love bite. It’s darkest in the center but slowly fades out, and Zayn starts with the red, coating his finger with it before he glides it gently across the mark.

Harry’s skin begins to prickle at his touch, a full body shiver, but he doesn’t wake up, continues sleeping as Zayn spreads the red out. He works it along the skin of Harry’s neck, down past his collarbones and then onto his shoulder, turning it a harsh, violent red.

He scrambles for the rest of his colors, reaching for the orange and applying it along the center, spreading it out carefully, mindful of the red. Zayn keeps his touch light as he flicks his fingers along Harry’s skin, highlighting the center of the red, highlighting the spot where he knows that the mark is hidden beneath until the red becomes something almost pleasant and that’s not what Zayn wants. So he grabs the black, squeezing it out onto his fingers before he’s rubbing it into the red, dragging it through the orange, breaking up the pleasantness of it all to expose the ugly truth within it. He spreads the black around until the orange is disappearing, peeking out around the edges, and standing in stark contrast to the red.

It’s ugly and painful. It looks like a wound, like a scab healing over a laceration on a burn.

Zayn’s heart is hammering in his chest as he forces himself to stop, because he’s painting too harshly, rubbing his fingers into Harry’s neck too aggressively, and he doesn’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t want him to feel the bleeding red and the consuming black, the anger and the pain and the confusion and the worry because he loves Harry.

He loves him like the soft pink reflecting off an ocean blue. He loves him despite the fact that he shouldn’t. He loves him when the only way that he can have him, truly have him in ways that no one else can is by painting him with his emotions, with his feelings, with the energy that Harry gives him when they’re together. He loves him even when Harry doesn't love him back.

Zayn loves Harry.

And the pain and the sadness of finding out that he’s been with someone else in a way that Zayn had stupidly believed was reserved for him is painted across Harry’s neck.

And when Harry wakes up twenty minutes later, Zayn’s still sitting beside him, fingers caked in reds and oranges and blacks. Harry gives him a soft kiss on the cheek before he crawls out of bed, and when Zayn glances up, Harry’s standing in the mirror, staring at the paint on his neck with a look on his face that Zayn’s never seen before. He doesn’t even know how to read it, just knows that it’s there and something inside of him feels like it can’t breathe. So he lies down, ignoring the fact that he hasn’t cleaned up his paints and his fingers are beginning to itch from the hardening paint, and he watches Harry shower, watches as the harsh colors glide down his body, disappearing from sight.

>><<

Zayn wakes up a few hours later, the clock on the side of his bed telling him that it’s only ten at night. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, doesn’t remember when he went from watching Harry in the shower to dreaming of blackness.

He pulls himself up slowly, stretching out his limbs before he walks into the bathroom, wanting to take a shower before he crawls back into bed for the remainder of the night, wants to erase the faint traces of Harry’s come off his stomach and the cruel colored paints off his fingers. 

When he steps into the shower, he sees faint traces of red paint on the shower floor standing in stark contrast with the white tile. He stares down at them, remembering where they had been just hours ago as he flicks on the water, letting the spray hit his back.

Zayn keeps his head down as he stares at the paint, watching as it gets picked up by the water and carried to the drain, the paint on his fingers drifting off with it. He wonders if this is what Harry sees when he’s in the shower, if he pays attention to the color washing away from his body, the traces of Zayn that he purposely put there in an attempt to keep his own connection with Harry.

When the paint is gone, Zayn lifts his head up, letting the water splash onto his face and roll down the length of his body, the warmth wrapping around him like a blanket.

He reaches blindly for the soap, rubbing it into his hands before he starts scrubbing at his body.

He wonders what Harry is doing right now, why he ran off while Zayn was sleeping instead of staying, if he hesitated as he was walking out the door, or if he was still angry about what happened with Zayn earlier but he got what he wanted so he figured why not leave.

Zayn’s shampooing his hair, massaging it into his scalp, when he decides that he’s going to go out for a while tonight; the shower waking him up and the thoughts of Harry making his blood pump a little faster and he needs to get out of his house, needs to get away from the scent of Harry still lingering in the air. Needs to get away from the red escaping down his shower drain and the faint traces of it still wrapped around his body.

For once, Zayn wants to do something for himself without a thought spared towards Harry.

>><<

Zayn finds a bar on the other side of town. It’s small and dingy with horrible lighting. Zayn has to squint to see, and his head already aches from it, having a hard time adjusting even though it’s darker outside. It’s not the kind of place that he’d normally go, and it’s the last place in the world that he’d find Harry, so he stays, weaves through the tables and scattered patrons until he finds the bar and sits.

He’s not usually one for drinking, but he wants something to take the edge off tonight, something that’ll get his mind off his argument with Harry earlier in the day so he’s not thinking about it in bed, tossing and turning and hoping that everything is okay between them. And not just the argument, but the violent, angry paint on his neck covering the mark that someone else placed on his body. He’d never seen that look before in Harry’s eyes.

Harry always looks at the paint on his body, always takes it in, but his expression is normally blank, giving away nothing to Zayn as he watches him, except tonight. Tonight there was something there, something pale and grey mixed with muddy, murky green like the swamp waters. It had felt like a storm, something calm and dangerous mixing together at once. If Zayn could paint Harry in that moment, it’d have flashes of black breaking up the grays and greens and browns, chopping it up into something unrecognizable to the eye. He’d paint in curves that curled together like a tornado of perplexity, showing off the confusion deep inside of Zayn’s body.

Zayn clears his throat when a bartender passes by, pale skin with shaggy blond hair and eyes as blue as the water of a spring when it trickles down from the rock and hits the water below as the light hits it. Zayn’s not sure he’s ever seen eyes so blue before. The bartender smiles at him and Zayn’s hit with yellow, something brighter than the light of the sun on a good day.

“Can I get you anything?” He asks as he tosses a white cloth over his shoulder, his hands bracing the bar.

Zayn orders and watches as the man gets to work. It’s not like the flashy places that he knows Harry frequents, where the bartenders spin the bottles around and do flashy tricks with the glasses. Harry’s told him stories about them along with the brightly colored cocktails that he likes to drink.

Zayn’s drink is brown, nothing fancy. Nothing flashy, nothing to impress anyone, just something that burns as it glides down his throat. He tries not to pull a face but judging by the laugh of the bartender, he fails.

“Not much of a drinker, are you?”

Zayn shakes his head, fingers circling the rim of the glass. “No, not really.”

“But you are tonight?”

Zayn doesn’t answer, just lifts the glass and downs the rest of it one go. “Can I get another?”

The bartender obliges and then leaves Zayn alone, rushing off to the other end of the bar to help other people. He steadily supplies Zayn with alcohol until he’s on his fifth drink, his brain a little fuzzy and his body sluggish and the bartender is looking at him with concerned eyes, but it doesn’t do anything to cut his thoughts off from Harry.

Zayn finds himself laughing bitterly at the fact that not even alcohol, a substance that people use to chase away their problems can cease the thoughts of Harry running through his mind.

He wants more alcohol, needs more alcohol.

“One more,” Zayn finds himself repeating.

The bartender just looks at him for a minute before he sighs. “This is about the point where I cut you off.”

“I took a cab here. I’ll take a cab home,” Zayn says, eyes boring into mesmerizing blue of the bartenders. “So, one more drink. Please.”

“I really can’t do that, I’m afraid,” the bartender replies, shrugging his shoulders. “But as for whatever’s bothering you, just go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

He offers Zayn a smile before he disappears to the other end of the bar.

Zayn watches him go with a glare because nothing is bothering him. He got himself into this situation. He’s never bothered to iron out the details and he knows what it’s all about, but that doesn’t mean something is bothering him.

Everything is bothering him but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s the only way that he can have Harry, even if he’s sharing him with the rest of the world. But he didn’t ask for the bartender to study him and take a whack at advice. He came here to escape his problems but the stupid fucking alcohol in this place doesn’t function like normal alcohol.

Next time he’ll get one of those pretty, pastel colored drinks that Harry likes to talk about, the ones that glow.

He leaves enough money on the bar to cover his drinks and a tip, leaving more than he should for a bartender that doesn’t know how to mind his own business before he stumbles to get off of his stool and staggers out of the bar.

He’s going to go home. He’s going to sleep until whatever shitty feeling he’ll have in the morning is gone, and he’s going to try and forget about what the bartender said to him.

>><<

The problem with forgetting is that Zayn doesn’t know how. He’s never been good at that sort of thing. The only thing he remembers fully are the rules that he’s laid out with Harry, but even at that he’s not very good. He never remembers that he’s not actually dating Harry. He never remembers that waiting for someone you love to want you back isn’t the way someone should be living their lives.

So he’s not surprised when two days after his outing at the bar when he’s sitting at home with nothing to do that he finds himself staring at his phone, a blank message for Harry open, thinking about the words of the bartender. 

 _Just go for it_ , he said, like it was _that_ easy. And maybe it is.

Zayn will never know unless he takes a chance so he takes a deep breath and types out, _hey, what are you doing?_

He bites his lip as he hits send. It’s nothing that’ll set Harry off. They’ve texted before, had conversations via their phones through texts, emails, phone calls, so sending the text isn’t a problem. It’s nothing. But there’s a hidden agenda underneath it all, Zayn wants to get Harry to do something with him, something out in the open. It doesn’t have to be a date; he’s not dim-witted enough to believe that Harry would be willing to jump right into anything. It’s just something to let Zayn know that Harry wants more from Zayn than the things they do together in his bedroom.

Zayn’s phone buzzes a phone minutes later, alerting him that Harry’s replied.

**Nothing, I just got out of the shower. What are you up to?**

Zayn releases a deep breath, a knot in his chest slowly unraveling slowly but steadily.

He bites his lip and stares at his phone and then adds, _Do you have any plans?_

**Why?**

Zayn stares at his phone for twenty minutes, chewing on his bottom lip as he looks at Harry’s text intently; worry seeping through his body that this might not be the right thing to do, not after Harry got angry at him the other night.

In retrospect, Zayn asking him to do something out of his apartment hadn’t angered Harry; Zayn had infuriated Harry by implying certain things and questioning him about the mark on his neck.

 _Just go for it,_ he remembers, the words pushing at the front of his mind as he thinks about what it was that had truly upset Harry. It gives him a push enough to write out:

_I just wanted to see if you’d want to go out and do something today, for a couple hours. Maybe?_

Hitting send feels like getting the air knocked out of him. He can’t breathe and he’s scared to see Harry’s reaction, so he tosses his phone down and heads to the shower. If Harry says anything about it, he just wanted to be ready.

He showers and then trims his facial hair, taking his time with it before he checks his phone. He doesn’t have an answer yet, so he heads back into the bathroom and gets his started on his hair, taking his time to get it dried and styled into place. It’s getting longer, the strands beginning to swoop around his face, framing it in a way that it’s never done before, so he leaves it flat, not bothering to style it up.

Checking his phone again, he sees that he still doesn’t have a response. He tries to fight down the bubble of worry in his gut, this cloudy grey smoke that wants to engulf his body like some kind of threatening smog. He fights it down, tells himself that Harry’s doing exactly as he is, picking through his closet for a pair of jeans and a shirt.

It’s when two hours have gone by that Zayn finally admits that maybe Harry doesn’t have any intentions of replying, no intentions of accepting his plans or just letting him down gently. Instead he ignored him, left Zayn hanging by a thread in limbo; hoping and praying that maybe, just maybe, Harry would surprise him for once and give him an inch. He wasn’t asking for a mile, just a small shrivel of something, anything, really.

Zayn sits on his couch for another hour, trying to pretend that he’s not watching his phone and waiting, tapping his pen against his sketchbook and pretending that he’s working on something. He groans and throws his supplies down, grabbing his phone and shoves it into his pocket along with his wallet and keys. He doesn’t need Harry to go out, he knows that, so he’s going to do something. Maybe take a walk to clear his mind, anything to get away from the rejection that he feels floating through the air of his apartment.

When he pulls his door open, Harry’s standing there with his fist raised in the air, like he was getting ready to knock against the cool metal. Zayn freezes when he sees him, hand gripping the doorknob tightly and feet taking a step back.

This isn’t something he expected.

“What’d you have in mind?” Harry asks, green eyes shining at Zayn as he smiles.

>><<

Harry ends up taking him to a place on the other side of town, a fancy hotel that has a name he can’t pronounce where the bellboys, along with the people coming in and out of it, are wearing suits and skirts that reach their knees with sensible heels. He and Harry stand out, but Harry doesn’t bat an eye at them, simply guides Zayn through the building until they’re fifteen stories up and sitting at the hotel’s restaurant’s outdoor patio.

It’s not as fancy as the hotel, there’s no gold trim and coffered ceilings with a shiny fountain to match. The chairs are round and curved, not soft and elegant. Outside it’s sleek black and harsh lines and edges. The tables are square, along with the chairs that are made of iron with perfect red cushion on top of them. They don’t look like anyone has sat in them ever, let alone today. Each table is full, people laughing and chatting behind thick sunglasses. They’re crowding around the benches with the soft pillows, lounging and drinking in the afternoon sun, surrounded by the artificial plants in tall black ceramic.

Zayn wonders if this is the type of place that Harry frequents, or if this is some place special. He hopes for the latter, but he’s not naïve enough to believe that Harry would take him anywhere as a first together.

They’re sitting at a table next to the railing, giving them a perfect view of the city, and Zayn feels as the breeze brushes against his cheeks, cooling down his warm skin as he watches Harry across from him.  He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses, Zayn’s pretty sure they’re ladies sunglasses but they frame Harry’s face nicely, the only downside is that Zayn can’t see his eyes.

“Have you been here before?” Zayn questions, thumbing at the edge of the table where a bit of paint appears to be chipping, the only flaw that Zayn’s seen since he’s laid eyes on the building.

Harry purses his lips for a second and takes a sip of his water. “I haven’t been here since Caroline and I broke up. I brought her here a couple times. It’s changed since the first time I came; it used to be more browns and blues.”

Zayn bites his lip and nods his head. Caroline is the girl that Harry dated between finishing university and when he found Zayn in the bar that night. He had told Zayn that it wasn’t really much of anything; that no one knew about it and that it had mostly been about sex. Zayn had nodded along and tried to ignore the dark, stormy blue that clouded around Harry when he talked about it, telling Zayn that there was a deep-rooted sadness about Caroline. The conversation had ended with Harry licking into Zayn and the only thing he could get out of his mouth was a string of obscenities.

“It’s really nice,” Zayn finally says, nodding his head in the direction of the city. “It has an amazing view.”

“I knew you’d like that bit,” Harry says, grinning. “I wasn’t sure where you wanted to go. I mean, all you said was out.”

“After the other night, I wasn’t really sure that you’d agree at all, so I figured an open ended invitation would work best,” Zayn replies with a shrug. “You like being in charge, so I gave that to you, hoping that you’d agree to be seen with me in public.”

Harry nods, taking another sip of his water. He looks thoughtful for a moment, his eyebrows pulled together. He slides his sunglasses up until they’re resting on top of his head and he’s looking at Zayn with crystal clear green eyes. “Have you started any paintings recently?” Zayn shakes his head. “That’s a shame, I love when you paint. You’ll tell me when you do, right? I want to come over and watch, if that’s all right.”

“I didn’t know that you liked watching me paint,” Zayn says carefully, because he really doesn’t know that Harry enjoys that. He knows that Harry tolerates the after sex body painting, and sometimes, on rare occasions, he’ll pop in if Zayn mentions painting over text, lying in Zayn’s bed with a book or taking a nap while Zayn paints until the early hours of the morning until his bones feel heavy and his hand is cramping.

Harry smiles at him, a lazy curve of his lips. “Yeah, I like it.”

“Even though you’re usually sleeping when it happens?”

Harry laughs, loud and bright, the sound coming out like a snort. “Yeah, even when I’m sleeping.”

Zayn smiles at him, and feels like he’s floating, his stomach fluttering at being able to make Harry laugh, even if the night before he had been the cause of his anger. He’s ready to say something, wanting to continue the conversation to try and learn more about the things that he does that Harry likes, but Harry is looking behind Zayn, his eyes wide.

“Oh fuck,” Harry groans, lifting a hand up to his forehead, trying to block out his face.

“What’s wrong?” Zayn asks, his voice laced with concern.

Harry doesn’t get a chance to answer because a man is shouting his name and clapping him on the back, Zayn assumes that’s the reason for Harry’s sudden change in demeanor, why he went from blue to grey in a matter of seconds.

“Harry, what on Earth are you doing here?” The man asks, he turns and wraps his arms around a woman. “Actually, can we get three chairs at this table, please? We won’t need another, this is fine, thanks.”

The staff member behind him, who Zayn hadn’t seen until that moment, nods his head and disappears. When he comes back he’s with another man and they’re sliding three chairs to join Harry and Zayn and filling the two vacant ones. Zayn’s separated by Harry by two chairs on the right and three on the left. He feels overwhelmed, watching as the man takes the seat next to Harry and the woman takes the seat next to him. And it’s in a blind rush that two more men and another woman join the table, grinning widely and kissing each other on the cheek. None of them pay any mind to Zayn, simply dropping into their seats and asking Harry what he’s doing here.

“I came to lunch,” Harry says, motioning across the table to Zayn.

“Oh, Christ,” The man says, the one who originally interrupted their conversation, not one of the other two that are giving Zayn odd looks. “You must think we’re terribly rude. ‘m names Chris, this is my wife, Alice.” His wife smiles at him, perfect rows of white teeth shining at him for a moment before her eyes drop down to the menu.

The man, Chris motions towards the woman sitting between his wife and Zayn, the one with the long red hair that’s parted down the center with sharp winged liner on her eyelids, it makes her look like a cat. “Ava,” she says her voice high and light.

“Will,” the man occupying the seat next to Zayn says, his mouth hidden behind a horrid beard that Zayn tries not to stare at. “And that’s Brady,” he adds, motioning towards the blond that’s sitting next to Harry and talking to the waiter.

They don’t bother asking his name, just turn back to each other and begin engaging in conversation about things that Zayn couldn’t give a crap about. He watches them talk and stares at them, trying to control the bubbling red of anger that’s trying to seep it’s way out of his pores, oozing out slowly like lava fighting it’s way out of a volcano. And Zayn’s ready to blow, just like a tornado.

Zayn keeps quiet, staring out at the cityscape beneath them, watching as the clouds slow drift across the sky until his food comes, and then he eats in silence, ignoring the looks that Harry keeps shooting him every few minutes. There’s something dancing behind Harry’s eyes, begging to be read and understood, but Zayn can’t see anything beyond Harry’s grey and his own red.

>><<

Zayn’s still angry during the drive home, the ride silent as Harry drives him back to his place. He’s still angry when he shoves his key in the lock and enters his apartment, ignoring Harry as he walks in behind him.

He doesn’t know why he’s angry. He doesn’t know why his skin is prickling and hot, so hot that he thinks his temperature is rising. He can feel his stomach knotting up and he doesn’t understand why.

Actually, he does. Zayn knows full well why he’s so aggravated with Harry, but it’s not something that he can vocalize. It’ll inadvertently break his rules and chase Harry off. He already frustrated Harry with asking to go out the other night and getting upset about something that happened while out, this was only going to seal his fate forever that he and Harry shouldn’t be out together in public.

Zayn doesn’t want that, and without knowing what to do with his anger, he grabs Harry by the collar and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s rough and Zayn works hard to take control of it, forcibly dragging Harry into his bedroom. They’re both stumbling over each other as they go, tugging at their clothes until they’re dropping onto his bed, naked and kissing fiercely.

He can feel Harry’s cock pressed against his thigh, half hard and thickening up quickly. Zayn presses down on it, shifting his leg and forcing Harry to moan into his mouth. Zayn swallows every breathy gasp that follows until Harry’s hips are bucking up; trying harder for something that Zayn’s not sure he wants to give, so he lets up on the pressure, pulling away from the kiss.

It feels wrong having sex with Harry while he’s so fucking furious, but it’s the only thing he can think of that matches the intensity of the emotions stirring inside of him. Sex with Harry is all-consuming and powerful, so many feelings behind it from Zayn’s end of things that in some remote part of his body, it’s telling him that this is exactly what he should be doing right now, even if he’s angry.

So he let’s Harry flip him over onto his back, sliding down between his legs until his fist is wrapped around his dick and pink, plump lips are circling around the head of his cock.

Zayn gasps at the feeling of it, because no matter how many times he and Harry have been in this position, Harry’s mouth is still just as incredible as the first time.

Zayn brushes his fingers through Harry’s hair, tugging it back until Harry groans the sound vibrating around him. He gets louder after that, moaning around Zayn as he takes Zayn further and further until the head of his dick is bumping against the back of his throat. Harry’s eyes are watering up but he holds it, until he pulls back completely, his mouth slicked up. And Zayn barely has a second to catch his breath before Harry’s lips are wrapped around him once more.

“Harry,” Zayn breathes out, trying to give him some kind of warning, trying to tell him that he’s close.

It’s the pent up emotions inside of him and the feeling of Harry’s tongue dragging across the underside of his cock, his hand around his balls and the base of his cock that leaves him coming down Harry’s throat, his body shaking from the sensation, his stomach twisting as he groans into the quiet air of his apartment.

Harry works him through it until Zayn tugs at his hair harshly, forcing Harry to pull away. He watches as the curly-haired boy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles up at Zayn, his eyelids hooded and heavy, as he allows Zayn to pull him up gently.

“On your stomach,” Zayn says and Harry’s eyes are shining with want, practically glowing with excitement of what’s to come before they’re working around each other, Zayn shifting so he’s hovering over Harry instead of lying beneath him. He runs his fingers across the skin covering Harry’s back, remembering the blue and yellow and white that coated it a short while ago, the colors that Zayn had painted across it. The colors from that night were so unlike the ones in the room tonight, the heavy grey, the deep, dark purples and the burnt red.

He drags his fingers down until he’s parting Harry’s cheeks, spreading him open, so he can lean down and lick across his rim. Harry’s entire body shivers at the feeling, they don’t do this often, but something about today has Zayn wanting to do all kinds of things. He blames it on the anger, blames it on this feeling of possession that’s taking over his body since it’s the first time that he’s had to share Harry. Not the first time, not really, because he’s always sharing Harry, but it’s the first time that he’s had to witness it happening in front of him, instead of just imagining it happened.

Whatever it is, Zayn shoves it aside and focuses on the movements of his tongue, lapping around Harry’s rim for a moment before he’s pressing in, breaching Harry’s opening, licking him open.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry pants out, hips grinding down, fists digging into the blankets and clenching ever so slightly from the feeling of Zayn’s tongue and breath against his skin.

Zayn digs his fingers into his thighs, keeping him in place, but Harry’s stubborn and he fights it, breathing out curses into the blankets as he simultaneously pushes back against Zayn’s tongue and grinds down on the duvet.

When he comes it’s with a shout, Zayn’s tongue still inside him, accompanied by his finger gently massaging Harry’s prostate until he’s withering, body shaking and breath coming out in heavy pants.

They lie next to each other in silence, the duvet kicked off the bed, lying on the floor. Zayn stares at it, waiting for Harry to fall asleep but it becomes clear when five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes pass and Harry’s still awake, lying next to him and watching him carefully. It leaves an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, but nothing can compare to the way he feels about not wanting to paint Harry tonight.

It’s the first night in Zayn’s memory that he’s not digging around in his drawer for his paints, something about the day still leaving him in a mood. Painting Harry seems like the furthest thing from his mind, especially when his thoughts are dancing around wanting to confront Harry about lunch, or if he should stay quiet and bury it down until it’s too late to say anything. 

As it turns out, it’s not a decision that he gets to make because Harry suddenly says, “Something wrong? Seems like there’s a lot on your mind.”

Zayn’s not expecting it, Harry being able to read him enough to know that something is bothering him. He had thought, for a moment, that Harry had suspected it during lunch and during the drive home, but he had forgotten about it while they had sex. So because he’s not expecting it, he confronts Harry.

“I thought that it was going to be the two of us today.”

“Zayn, it’s not a big deal, okay? My friends, they’re friendly. We always go out in groups, always join each other if we see each other out. That’s just how we are. They didn’t mean any harm by it. And I didn’t exactly know that they’d be there,” Harry says, shifting around until he’s sitting up, looking at Zayn carefully.

“To you, maybe,” Zayn says, picking at the sheet. He wishes that they weren’t having this conversation after sex, not while they’re both naked and lying in his bed. Not after something so intimate and personal. But it’s happening and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

“Zayn…”

“No, Harry. Come on, I just wanted one day to myself. One day where I didn’t have to share you with the entire world.”

“Share me? Zayn, I’m right here,” Harry says, looking at Zayn in confusion.

“I’m not talking about now, I’m talking about earlier. I’m talking about at lunch, when we were supposed to be spending time together, but then fifty fucking people decide to join us. No one I know, no one who bothered to even ask my fucking name, and you just sat there. The least you could have done was sit next to me, make me feel like I wasn’t a waste of fucking space,” Zayn spits out, his anger growing from red to white, burning intensely inside of his chest.

“Zayn, I understand, but come on. You wanted to spend time together. You wanted to be alone together and we’re along together now. It’s just the two of us and you want to fight,” Harry says and there’s a bite to his voice that makes Zayn’s stomach burn. 

Getting out of bed, he kicks at the duvet on the floor, feeling out of control in his frustration. “I don’t want to fight, that’s not what I want. I just want you to understand how I feel. I just want you to know what it’s like for me when for once you decide that it’s okay to be seen with me, but then you don’t even acknowledge me the entire time.”

“I wasn’t trying to ignore you.”

“But you weren’t trying to engage with me, either. I would have been fine with your friends joining us if someone at the fucking table would have acknowledged that I was there, but no one did, not even you and that hurt, Harry,” Zayn admits, sniffing and rubbing at his nose.

“I get that, but there’s nothing that I can do about it now, is there?” Harry says and the words force Zayn to bite at his lip, squinting down at the ground.

“No, but you could at least be sorry.”

“I’m sorry, I am,” Harry says, standing up as well. “I get it, but I didn’t do it intentionally.”

“I know you didn’t but Harry, I just wanted one fucking night with you. Just one time where I don’t have to share you.”

“You keep saying that,” Harry says, pulling open one of his drawers in Zayn’s dresser, grabbing a pair of boxers and tugging them on. “You keep mentioning sharing me, but when exactly did I become a piece of your property?”

Zayn glares at him, striding forward and snatching a pair of boxers out of Harry’s drawer before he can close it, pulling them on as he says, “I’m not implying ownership on you. I’m not talking about physically; I’m talking about your time, your attention. You share those people sometimes, like now; we’re sharing each other with each other.”

“It’s my time and my attention, so I’ll decide who it’s going to be shared with.”

“You made that crystal clear today, Harry. I heard that message loud and clear.”

“Oh, my god,” Harry groans, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, fingers getting snagged on a knot that makes him groan out again. “I wasn’t trying to make you see anything, but I can’t change it now. I’ve apologized and I meant it, I’m sorry that you felt neglected, but I can’t do anything about what happened.”

“You never go out with me, ever. And the one time you do, you ignore me. That’s not how people in-“Zayn cuts himself off, breathing heavy with realization about where he was about to take this. Harry is looking at him like he knows where Zayn was going as well.

“In a what Zayn? A relationship?” Harry asks, looking at Zayn, who bites his lip. “That’s not what the fuck we are. We’re not together.”

He’s sure that Harry didn’t mean it the way he’s taking it, like Harry really couldn’t give a shit about the fact that he’s feeling so insignificant right now and how that sentence cuts like daggers through Zayn’s heart.

He _knows_ Harry, and he _knows_ that sometimes he can be an ass, but he’s not heartless and if he’s hurt someone, he’s not going to rub salt into the wounds to make it worse. But something about it feels a lot like salt, like Harry wants to hurt Zayn, wants him to understand why they can’t be together in public.

It hurts and Zayn’s not ready to admit that maybe Harry is right, maybe they shouldn’t be around each other in public… only in private, if tonight is anything to go by.

Zayn sucks in a deep breath, trying to steady himself before he gets dressed, pulling on the clothes he wore out with Harry. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to fix it blindly, not really caring if it looks like he’s just been fucked or not, before he puts on his shoes, avoiding looking at Harry through the whole process.

The air is suddenly suffocating, so many emotions, so many colors trying to fight their way into the cloudy air of his apartment. It makes him feel dizzy and even more dejected when he can’t read them.

“Don't be here when I get back,” Zayn mutters before he’s slamming his apartment door shut and disappearing into the night, a trail of white hot anger in his wake.

>><<

Zayn finds himself back at the bar from the other night, seeking the quiet air, and wanting to be in a place that’s never really crowded. It’s much earlier than he had gone out last time, but it’s still vaguely empty, much to his relief. It makes it easier to get a seat at the bar, tucked away in the far corner, tapping his thumbs against the surface, waiting for a bartender to notice him.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking to see if there’s anything from Harry. He doesn’t know why he does it, he meant what he said that he doesn’t want Harry at his place when he gets back, and he’s still mad as hell, but a tiny sliver of him wishes there was something other than a text from his mother checking in to see if he’s doing all right. He stares at her message and thinks no, he’s not doing okay at all. Mostly he feels foolish. It was the first time that he went out with Harry, really and truly out, and now he wishes that he had never broached the idea, wishes that he would have stuck to the safety of his apartment, tucked away in the safe confines of his bed where he knows that Harry is his and he’s not fighting for his attention.

Zayn’s staring at the text from his mother, ignoring his surroundings, which is why he misses the sound of someone approaching, misses the sound of someone clearing their throat, but he doesn’t miss when the person talks.

“Can I get ya anything?”

Zayn’s head snaps up at the sound of the voice, shoving his phone into his pocket quickly, like it held the secrets to his life instead of a text from his mother. It’s the bartender from the other night, Zayn scowls, because without this guy, he would have never had the courage to do what he did.

“Hey, I remember you. You want the same from the other night?”

Zayn shakes his head and finds his voice to say, “No. Shots. Lots of shots, just a whole row of them.” He waves his hand back and forth, trying to show how long he’d like the line to be. He doesn’t want to sit back and sip on something slowly, he wants the rushed burn of his throat that a shot provides, wants to drink seven of them and wonder where his life has gone.

“So you want about this many,” the bartender asks with a smile, hold his hands out, palms about a foot apart. Zayn nods, because this bartender is mocking him, and it’s really not funny. He’s had a shit day and he’d like to drink his weight in alcohol. Maybe not his weight exactly, but the lower half of one of his arms, probably. “All right, I’ll start you off with three, and we’ll see where this goes from there.”

“No, I’d like at least double that, please.”

The bartender nods, but sets three shot glasses on the counter anyway, lining them up in a nice, pretty row. “Pick your poison.”

“I really couldn’t care, to be quite honest with you. Whatever is in front of you is fine, I promise.”

It looks like some kind of rum, if Zayn had to guess, the bronze liquid filling the glasses as the bartender drags the bottle in a straight line, filling them to the brim. Zayn barely gives him time to set the bottle down before he’s downed the first shot, throwing it back and trying not to flinch at the burn before he takes the second and his hands are gripping the third, ready to throw it back as well when the bartender speaks.

“You know, it’s none of my business, but I find that drinking doesn’t really solve our problems. It feels like it does, being able to forget for a couple hours, a full night, if you’re lucky, but it’s not going to make them go away.”

Zayn looks at him, because he knows that bartenders can get quite friendly at times, kind of like tattoo artists in the sense that, if they don’t have enough customers, like this one, they’ll stick around and chat, want to hear your troubles and woes, but the man’s advice is the reason he’s back here, it’s all his fault.

Well, kind of. It’s a combination of faults. It’s the bartender’s –who really needs to give out his name- for offering his advice without understanding the complexities of the situation. It’s Harry’s fault for leading Zayn on to think that more could happen when they’re together but leaving him high and dry when the chance to broaden their relationship arose, or it’s because he’s not brave enough to fully be with Zayn. Zayn’s not really sure where Harry stands. But it’s mostly Zayn’s fault, because he knew better, but he broke his rules anyway.

“I’m not running away from my problems,” Zayn mumbles out quietly, staring at the raised shot glass in his hand, sloshing the liquid around carefully, not wanting to spill its contents. “It’s been a really shit day, to be quite frank with you. I’ve had a,” he pauses, licking his lips, dragging his bottom one between his teeth as he thinks carefully, not sure of how to finish his sentence, “disagreement of sorts with a friend of mine, someone very important to me, and it’s been a really fucking shitty day.”

“Whatever’s going on, don’t worry about it, man. You’ll be all right.”

Zayn laughs, shaking his head. “And what makes you think that?”

“I think there is some kind of saying that says, ‘sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.’ It’s probably what’s happening with you. I’m sure your friendship was great, and if it’s as great as you think, then it’ll all work out. If it’s not, then you’ll have something better to look forward to. And, to be honest, a hangover isn’t that great, so I can give you more shots, or you can call it a night and get some sleep.”

“Isn’t that one of those Marilyn Monroe quotes that no one is actually sure that she said?” Zayn asks, squinting his eyes at the bartender, eyeing him skeptically, because most people don’t usually quote Marilyn when they’re trying to lift your spirits.

The bartender shrugs, but he’s grinning. “She’s got some really great ones out there. I’m sure I could think of another, if you need it.”

Zayn shakes his head, waving the bartender off. “No, that won’t be necessary, thank you, though.” He sighs quietly, staring at the third and final shot glass in his hand before he throws it back, downing it all in one go and setting the tiny glass back on the bar top. “Aren’t bartenders supposed to encourage people to drink? Isn’t it against your job to tell me to go home at this point?”

“Usually, yeah.”

Zayn nods and stands up slowly; he’s ready to head home for the night. The alcohol spreading warmth from his chest down to his toes and up to his cheeks. He’s exhausted, maybe not physically, but mentally. The day has been draining and he’s grateful that, despite his desire to drink his worries into oblivion that someone was there to let him know that it’s not worth it.

“What’s your name?” Zayn asks, pulling his wallet out of his pocket slowly, watching as the bartender throws a white cloth over his shoulder.

“Niall,” he says. “Yours?”

“Zayn.”

“Hmm, well I hope to see you around, Zayn. Hopefully under better circumstances next time,” Niall says, winking at Zayn before he rushes off to help more bar patrons. Zayn watches him for a moment before he shakes his head and slaps his money down on the counter, sticking it underneath one of his shot glasses before he leaves, heading home to see if anything awaits him.

>><<

Zayn’s apartment is vacant when he gets back.

There’s no traces of how long Harry might have lingered, no sign that he was ever there to begin with, if you’re someone that’s not Zayn. But Zayn knows Harry, knows him down to his core where the only blind spots are the spaces that Zayn himself occupies, and he knows that Harry stayed for a while, maybe half an hour before he left.

There are still traces of stormy grey in the air. Zayn can feel it slowly wrapping around his skin, weighing him down and smothering him like a boa constrictor, wrapping and wrapping around him until his throat feels tight with emotion and unspoken words.

But he’s the one who left and he shouldn’t…fuck, he thinks, rubbing at his eyes, his back pressed against his front door. He takes steady, calming breaths, trying to fight the constricting emotions of his mind and heart.

It takes a minute but he finally calms down enough to lock his doors and kick off his shoes before he heads to bed, too tired to change as he drops down onto the blankets, shoving his face into his pillow so he can’t smell the lingering scent of Harry and falls asleep.

>><<

Four days later, and Zayn still hasn’t heard from Harry or seen him at all.

It’s been four days without contact from Harry, no texts in the middle of the night or day with random thoughts or song lyrics or excerpts from books that he’s reading, ones he knows that Zayn will find interesting. There haven’t been any phone calls, no waking up to the sound of Harry’s voice, thick, heavy words rambling on about things that Zayn doesn’t hear most of the time, just listens and paints, brushstrokes across the canvas simulating the sound of Harry’s voice and the colors that Zayn can feel through the phone.

But it’s what he wanted, for Harry to be gone, but not for this long.

And it hurts, like a rubber band around his heart, a constant pressure that makes it feel like nothing is working properly. It leaves little black holes in all of his colors.

But he’s tired of waiting and feeling sorry for himself, because if Harry doesn’t want to contact him, then there’s nothing he can do about it. So he drags himself to the supermarket, needing to stock up on the essentials.

He’s reading the back of a box of cereal when an all too familiar voice sounds from behind him.

“It’s nice to see that you’re into more than just alcohol.”

Zayn turns and sees the bartender, Niall standing behind him, a shopping basket clutched in front of him, using both hands to carry it.

“Definitely into more than just alcohol,” Zayn assures him, smiling. He wants to ask what he’s doing here, but it’s obvious, and he’d only look dense. “I see that you’re into alcohol, though, just like at the job, huh?” Zayn teases, catching sight of the bottle of vodka in Niall’s basket.

The blond laughs, pretty rows of white teeth on display again. “Yeah, hard liquor really isn’t my favorite, but a friend of mine has reason for celebration, so we’re going all out.”

“Couldn’t just take them to your bar? Treat them all and get paid to do it?”

“No,” Niall says, shaking his head. “Ever since I started working in a bar, I’ve realized that they’re not really my scene. I’d rather drink at home, always loved drinking at home, actually.”

“Hmm, well, I hope you enjoy it tonight,” Zayn says, feeling the steady creep of awkwardness that comes with having a conversation with someone you don’t know that well is beginning to curl around the two of them. Zayn’s never been good with starting conversations, especially with strangers, and ones that he thinks he might want to take out.

The blond is cute. He’s got beautiful eyes and a lovely smile, and he seems insightful in ways that Zayn’s not. And he has a constant glowing yellow that seems to follow him around, it’s been at the bar and it’s there now. Harry’s never yellow, not like this, and it’s something so exciting and so new, and Zayn doesn’t know him, but he needs to get over Harry. And maybe Niall could help him with that.

“I should get going,” Niall says, breaking Zayn’s train of thought. “I’m glad that you seem to be doing better, even happier to see that you’ve got no alcohol in there. Don’t try and sneak any when I leave, I’ll know.”

“I won’t,” Zayn says, trying to get his brain and his mouth to work together so he can ask the blond for his number.

“All right, well, maybe I’ll see you around,” Niall mutters, waving awkwardly.

“Wait. Do you want to, um, I don’t know,” Zayn says, shrugging his shoulders and coughing into his fist. He’s never done this before, not really, it’s usually people approaching him, asking for his number and a night of his time, and usually he’d think of Harry and say no, turning them away, but he’s not thinking of Harry this time. “Can I get your number? Maybe?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Niall says, grinning at him. He smiles a lot, thin pink lips curving up to expose a neat row of white teeth. “Can I have your phone?”

“Oh, god. Of course,” Zayn mumbles, shifting his basket over to the other hand so he can dig his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry.” He hands it over and watches the blond smile at him, unlocking it and doing what he needs to do.

It’s been four days without Harry and Zayn’s feeling brave, he loves him, but he’s not waiting for him, not anymore. If Harry can’t love him – _won’t_ love him – then he’ll find someone else.

“Here you go,” Niall says, handing Zayn his phone back. “I hope to hear from you, Zayn.”

Zayn watches him go with a smile and thinks that yeah, he’ll definitely be hearing from him.

>><<

Zayn stares at the blank canvas with his head cocked to the side, chewing on his bottom lip in thought as he tries to figure out what to paint on it. It’s the first time in a while that he’s painting anything that wasn’t Harry’s emotions on Harry’s skin, so he feels rusty. Tapping his paintbrush against his leg, he sighs, realizing that he isn’t going to get much accomplished today.

He sets his paintbrush down and pulls his phone out of his pocket, there’s no messages waiting for him, as it has been for nearly a week. He’s not surprised, but it doesn’t stop him from checking it every chance he gets, waiting for a message from Harry telling him that he’s finished with him for good or that he’ll be over soon. He’s waiting for anything, actually, even a picture of Harry’s knees (an actual picture message that Zayn has received once), something that would clue him into why there has been so much silence passing between them.

But a text from Harry isn’t the only thing missing from his phone; he hasn’t texted Niall, either. It’s not that he hasn’t wanted to, he has, but he’s rarely at this side of things where he has a number and he gets to decide what to do with it.

He stares thoughtfully at the contact name ‘Niall Horan’ and tries to muster up the courage to write out a message. It’s really not that hard. All he has to do is write ‘hey, it’s Zayn from the bar, you gave me your number in the supermarket, what’s up?’

Not hard at all.

Zayn is making it hard because this is what he does; he complicates things and makes it more difficult for himself than it actually has to be. He complicated it with Harry, tried to put a label on what they had, wanted more than Harry was willing to give, and pushed and pushed and pushed until six days have gone by, and he’s still not heard from Harry.

He complicated things with Harry, but he doesn’t want to make the same mistake with someone else, so he takes a deep breath, fills his lungs up with air before he breathes it out and opens a blank message, and writes:

 _Hey, what are you up to?_ He’s not actually sure if that’s a good opening liner, but he presses send anyway. He stares at the text for a moment, willing Niall to reply instantly.

“Fuck,” Zayn curses, because he’s already fucked it up by forgetting to leave his name.

 _This is Zayn, by the away. You gave me your number at the supermarket,_ he adds, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes for a second, his vision going black. It’s a different kind of complication, but nothing as severe as the things he’s screwed up with Harry.

His phone beeps, signaling that he’s got a response; he looks at it and reads, **good to see that you know how to work a phone ;) and I’m watching the game with a friend, you?**

_Trying to paint, not having any luck._

**No shit, you paint?**

Zayn bites his lip and writes back, _yeah. Most days it’s easier, though._

**Cool. You’ll have to show me sometime.**

Zayn rolls his eyes, because as it stands right now, the only thing that he’s able to paint is Harry’s naked body after sex, and that’s hardly the kind of situation that he thinks Niall would want to walk in on. Also, that’s likely to be something that chases Harry away forever, and ruin any chance that he might have with Niall.

He shakes those thoughts from his mind, because he’s getting ahead of himself, like always.

_Yeah, maybe. How have things at the bar been?_

**Shit boring. Waiting to see when you might pop in again, though.**

There’s a knock at Zayn’s door and he sets his phone down on the end table next to his bed and goes to answer it. Looking through the peephole, he can see that it’s Harry, and Zayn loses his breath at the sight of him. It’s been nearly a week of silence,

And it’s as if all thoughts of Niall are wiped from his memory when he pulls the door open and Harry steps in carefully, smiling at him nervously, taking careful steps forward until he’s crowding Zayn’s space, pressing his back against the wall and kicking the door shut.

Zayn releases a shaky breath, and waits, because Harry’s looking at him, really studying him carefully with his eyes. He’s dragging his fingers from Zayn’s palms, up his arms, until he’s cupping his jaw. And then he’s kissing him, soft lips pressed against Zayn’s hesitantly. He’s giving him these short kisses to Zayn’s lips, like he’s unsure if he should be doing it or if Zayn wants him to kiss him.

He’s offering Zayn an out, but Zayn’s gripping onto Harry’s hips and pulling him forward. Zayn works Harry’s mouth open to slide his tongue in, because he wants to taste. He wants to be completely overpowered by everything Harry in ways that he’s been missing over the last week.

Zayn’s distracted by the feel of Harry pressed against him, the warmth of his mouth against his as he kisses that he doesn’t stop to think about the conversation that he and Harry should be having.

It’s all too familiar. It’s all too expected, really, but it’s been so long and Zayn still hasn’t worked up defenses, particularly after so much time, it’s been nearly a week since he’s seen Harry and they left off on such a bad note. And they really should talk about it, but Harry’s making his head spin and he can feel his hardened cock pressed against his hip and it’s too much for him.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” Zayn says without thinking, pulling away from the kiss briefly before he dives back into it, biting down on Harry’s lip. Harry doesn’t reply, but he groans into Zayn’s mouth, and carefully drags him towards the bedroom.

>><<

Harry’s asleep next to him, blankets wrapped wildly around him, exposing only one of his legs. His emotions are still clouded to Zayn, making it hard for him to distinguish what Harry might be feeling, what colors are radiating off of him. He can sense traces of purple, rich shades of plum mixed in crimson and stormy black and sharp white.

Zayn’s fingers follow the movement of the energy seeping out of Harry, short and sporadic moving like the beats of his heart when mapped on paper, up and down in sharp succession.

The colors are bleeding together violently, fighting against each other and it makes Zayn’s own heart race, his nerves light up as he tries to work through the whirlwind of colors, trying to work through Harry’s emotions into something tangible, something that he can lay out in front of him on Harry’s thigh and read like words on paper.

But it’s not that easy, because through the harsh black and white shines a murky plum and deep, rich crimson that are fighting to break out, but the sharpness of the lines are interlocking the colors, weaving them together tightly into an impenetrable force field that Zayn can’t break.

Zayn’s hands are shaking as he pulls away, his body practically vibrating with this unreadable emotion of Harry’s, and he needs to catch his breath. He watches Harry closely, the rise and fall of his chest, and his relaxed features that don’t match the colors Zayn is seeing, and he can’t help but wonder why the boy lying next to him keeps coming back.

There’s nothing connecting them together besides sex, at least from Harry’s end of things, and that’s something he can get from anyone. Zayn’s always known that everyone loves Harry, doesn’t have to be out with him when he’s interacting with other people to know it, so it doesn’t make sense why he’s here, why he’s choosing to come back time and time again.

He pulls himself out of bed slowly, heading into the bathroom to wash the paint off his hands. As he’s watching the colors bleed down the drain, he hears Harry stir from inside the bedroom, and he glances up and watches through the mirror as Harry slowly wakes up, stretching his limbs out before he climbs out of bed. He shuffles quietly into the bathroom, his painted thigh on full display.

Zayn shuts the tap off and dries his hands on a towel that’s thrown across the top of the counter, mindful of Harry standing behind him. He’s surprised, to say the least, when he turns around and sees Harry lifting his head up from examining his thigh, an unreadable expression on his face, even more unreadable when he steps forward and kisses Zayn, something soft and slow, a lazy movement of their lips together for a fleeting moment before he’s stepping away and getting into the shower. 

And a few moments later, when Zayn’s packing his paints away, his phone beeps from its spot on the bedside table. He leans forward, dropping the paints into the drawer to see whom the text is from. It’s Niall asking if he’s busy tomorrow night.

Zayn stares at the preview on his phone, biting his lip. It’s an innocent question; nothing hinting that it’s meant to mean anything more than a flat out question about what Zayn might be doing tomorrow evening. And he’s got nothing planned, but something about the text feels dirty and wrong, especially after what happened with Harry just now. Even more so with Harry in the shower right now.

He glances up to look at Harry, sees that once again the door is left open so he can look at Harry, watch as he rubs gently at his neck, getting himself properly wet.

It feels peculiar after not seeing Harry for nearly a week that now he’s able to see him, touch him, and know that things are okay between the pair of them, but there is still that itch beneath his skin, the one telling him that it’s time to move on, time to give his love to someone that could return it. And Niall… he’s asking Zayn what his plans are, which, while it seems like nothing, alludes to the fact that he wants to see Zayn in public soon. It’s more than Harry has ever done and Zayn barely knows Niall.

The text feels wrong to receive in Harry’s presence but…he and Harry aren’t together, Harry has made that perfectly clear, so he sighs deeply and types back,

_No, what did you have in mind?_

>><<

Niall takes him to a restaurant well on the other side of town, a place that Zayn’s heard people talking about, but nowhere that he’s ever eaten at before. The walls are stark white with knockoff Jackson Pollock paintings on the wall, highlighting the walnut stained wood furniture and robin’s egg blue upholstery. It’s sleek and sophisticated while still maintaining an atmosphere of relaxation, something almost lavender about it as Zayn follows Niall and the maitre d to the table.

Their table is tucked in the corner and Niall follows Zayn to the booth-style seat instead of the chair, giving Zayn the perfect vantage point of the entire restaurant.

“These are the kinds of places you like to come to?” Zayn asks, flipping open the menu. Nothing about this place screams Niall, not like he really knows him, but Niall’s more of an icy blue than lavender, some place more chilled out without the mask of sophistication.

Niall grins at him above the menu and says, “No, but it’s a nice place to bring someone for the first date.”

Date, Zayn thinks, biting back a smile. The truth is, he wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to think of tonight, if they were two acquaintances getting to know each other, or if there was something else going on, but now he knows, and it ignites something deep within him, because Niall is someone who willingly takes him out, who isn’t embarrassed by him and wants to keep him tucked away in his apartment.

“Everything looks so-“

“Expensive,” Zayn finishes, his eyes scanning over the menu. He’s never seen prices like this.

Niall laughs. “I was going to say delicious, but yeah, we can go with expensive.”

“Oh, sorry. It looks delicious, too,” Zayn mutters, clearing his throat. “Do you know what you want to order?”

“I’m going to get whatever you get.”

“Oh? That’s a lot of pressure. What if I choose something that you don’t like?”

Niall closes his menu and shrugs his shoulders. “I doubt that’ll happen, I’m pretty easy to please.”

When the waiter comes, Zayn orders the roasted Chicken Marsala, and Niall nods in satisfaction, handing the menus over to the waiter and smiling at Zayn. “That was a smart choice.”

“Yeah, well, no thanks to you,” Zayn teases, thumb chasing the condensation on his water glass.

“I’m not very good with making choices like that, when there are so many options and all of them better than the last. When I’m out with my friends I usually do the same thing, I choose a friend and order the exact same thing as them,” Niall explains with a shrug of his shoulders. “Sometimes it works out, other times it doesn’t.”

“Well,” Zayn starts, pausing to take to a sip of his water. “I hope that it works out tonight, it looks good anyway.”

“Yeah? How do you know what it looks like?”

Zayn smiles. “The man two tables over is eating something that fits the description on the menu, so I just kind of…guessed?”

When Niall laughs, it’s with his mouth open and eyes shining, like Zayn’s reasoning is the best thing in the entire world, and it makes Zayn’s skin tingle, because it’s such an open appreciation for Zayn, something that he’s not entirely used to. He watches Niall in awe, trying to keep the smile off his face.

“You know, I’ve never heard anyone order food in that way.”

Zayn shrugs, because it’s basically the same thing that Niall does, ordering food based off what someone else orders, but he’s not going to tell him that.

“So Zayn, tell me about these paintings that you like to do. Are you an artist?”

“I guess you could say that,” Zayn says, nodding his head. “I mean, it’s not- it’s not.” The sound of laughter floating through the air of the restaurant distracts him, and it’s so familiar, the sound making his stomach churn. It’s not just one person laughing, but a group of people and he follows the noise to a crowded table in the back. Sitting at the table is Harry. There are about ten other people, but all Zayn can see is Harry, and it’s…

He didn’t think that this would happen. This never happens, seeing Harry in public. And it chooses to happen when he’s out on a date, and it’s… Fuck, if he can’t breathe right now. His head is spinning, palms sweating. He feels like an animal backed into a corner, wanting to flee but not knowing how to go about it, because he’s trapped. Niall’s sitting across from him and Harry’s on the other side of the room, he can’t physically go anywhere, nor can he tear his eyes away from Harry, taking in his close proximity to the boy sitting next to him.

His eyes narrow as he watches him, the soft orange glow radiating off of Harry making his skin itch in the worst of ways. He’s green with envy, he knows it, but he can’t help it.

“Zayn?”

“Sorry, sorry. I got distracted for a second. What were we talking about again? Painting, right?” Zayn adds, taking a sip of water and trying to stop his hands from shaking. “I paint, yes. I wouldn’t call myself an artist, though. I mean, it’s what I do for a living, and it’s what I do in my spare time, but it’s not. It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m not an artist.”

“Modest, I see,” Niall says with a grin. “It’s all right. I’ve got a friend the same way, can draw the shit out of anything, but keeps his drawing pad under lock and key, figuratively, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the same thing, I guess,” Zayn says, sparing a glance over towards Harry and then back at Niall, smiling. “So what about you? What do you do in your spare time besides stop people from buying drinks.”

Niall chuckles and launches into a discussion about…something. Zayn’s trying really hard to listen. He can hear what Niall is saying, but he’s having trouble processing the words because he can’t take his eyes off Harry and the arm that’s draped casually over his shoulder, or the way he drops his head into the guy’s shoulder to laugh about whatever is being said at the table.

Something about the sight sets something off in his stomach, twisting and knotting it until he feels like he’s going to be sick.

Suddenly he feels overwhelmed in the worst sort of way, his nerves lit and throbbing, creating an all body sort of pain that’s coming out of nowhere. The harsh reminder of what he wants more than anything and the one thing that he can’t have all at once. It hits him like a freight train, slamming into him and robbing him of oxygen. He can feel his eyes prickling with tears and it’s an overreaction, maybe, but it doesn’t stop him from rushing out of the restaurant, muttering his apologies to Niall before he runs.

The air feels too tight around him and the dark storm cloud of sadness follows him home, flashing envy filled lightning.

>><<

It’s not the first time that Zayn has cried, not the first time that tears have darkened and dampened his pillowcase. But it’s the first time that he’s cried to the clear vision of Harry with someone else, the images playing through his mind on a constant loop of sorrow and discontent.

He rubs harshly at his eyes, because he doesn’t even know what he’s crying for. He knows that Harry goes out with other people, has seen it himself when they went out together, he’s seen the rare marks on Harry’s body from other people. It’s no surprise to him that Harry is friendly with others.

And it shouldn’t hurt, because Zayn was out with Niall. He was doing the same exact thing as Harry except on a more intimate level. He was out on a date and he shouldn’t be allowed to cry about the fact that he saw Harry out, but the thing is…

The thing is that Zayn is in love with Harry, but Harry’s not his. And in the confines of his apartment, he can pretend that he has Harry for a few hours. He can pretend that there is something more there then there actually is. But when he’s sitting opposite Niall, watching as Harry laughs and touches someone else; it’s like a jagged dagger slicing through his heart, because it’s not fair.

It’s not fair that Harry probably went home with that man and is giving himself to him in the same way he did with Zayn. Or, he went home alone, tucked away safely in his bed, sparing no thoughts to Zayn. But he’s not crying, he didn’t notice Zayn out with Niall and he doesn’t care that there might be others in Zayn’s life that can so easily slip into Harry’s role and take it away from him.

So he doesn’t know why he’s crying. He’s hurt, and he’s angry, and it feels like his heart has been stomped on a few times, but for reasons he doesn’t fully comprehend, because Harry isn’t his.

Harry isn’t his boyfriend. They’re not anything exclusive. He’s just the boy that Harry likes to sleep with, his little toy…or something. But Zayn loves him, so he cries, because in that moment he’s scarlet and black, bleeding together into something ugly, something painful.

The colors are filling his bedroom and wrapping around him tightly and all he can do is cry, because sometimes love makes you cry.

Sometimes the people you love are worth your tears, worth the temporary heart break, but Zayn’s in a state of grey where he’s not sure if Harry really is worth it anymore.

>><<

The following morning, Zayn’s sitting at his kitchen table, charcoal pencil in hand and littering a once blank sheet of paper with harsh black lines, filling it in and using it as a way to get out some of his negative feelings. Waking up this morning, he realized that it was foolish of him to rush out of his date with Niall and to lie in bed crying, but that realization hasn’t made him pick up his phone and reply to the constant buzz of incoming texts from Niall.

_Hey Zayn, is everything alright?_

 

_Zayn??_

 

_I guess that you’re not coming back. I took care of dinner. Hope you’re okay._

 

_Just wanted to check in with ya, everything good?_

 

_Alright, let me know if you want to talk._

 

He feels awful about running off on Niall, because he shouldn’t have done it and he shouldn’t have freaked out the way he did, but something about seeing Harry like that when he wants him so much but he can’t have him, hurts. It hurts.

It’s not a massive pain, not like a knife to his gut feeling, but like tiny pinpricks to his heart. A constant ache that gets worse and worse as time goes on, starting off as something small and growing into a black hole where his heart used to be.

And while it hurts, he’s not with Harry, and Harry’s not with him. Harry’s free to run around with the entire fucking town and that’s none of Zayn’s concern, even if it hurts, even if it bothers him, it’s none of his business. Just like if he had been out with Niall, like he was, it’s not Harry’s business, even if it ended up hurting him.

Zayn’s embarrassed, mostly. He ran out on a date because of someone else laughing, and he doesn’t know what to tell Niall about what happened. An apology would be a good start, but from there…he’s not sure.

There’s a knock on his front door, so he drops his charcoal on the table and heads to answer it. He’s not surprised, not really, to see Harry when he checks the peephole. He sighs and pulls the door open, unsure why he’s doing it, because he’s still troubled by last night’s situation.

The door is closed only for a second when Harry is gripping him by the waist and pressing Zayn’s body into it, kissing him. Zayn melts into it, gripping onto Harry’s shirt to tug him closer, wanting nothing more than for their bodies to mold together, but Harry’s moving too much, dragging his hands from Zayn’s lips, up his abdomen and to his jaw, tugging gently on Zayn’s hair as he slips his tongue into Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn’s head is spinning, because of the kiss and because thoughts of the night before are entering his mind, Harry’s laugh, the way he was curled towards someone else. It’s all flashing through his memory and he bites down on Harry’s lip and shoves him backwards.

“What the fuck?” Harry mutters, thumb rubbing against his bottom lip.

“We need to talk.”

“So you can’t just say that? You bit the shit out of my lip.”

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles, turning away from Harry and walking away from his door and further into his apartment. It doesn’t feel like a conversation that they should be having at the entrance and exit point.

“All right, so what did you want to talk about?”

Zayn takes a deep breath and says, “I saw you out last night. At the restaurant with all those people.”

“Okay,” Harry says, nodding his head carefully. “And?”

“You were out with all of those people and it just. You don’t want that with me, to go out. But that’s something I really want with you, and it upset me to see that you’re willing to do these things with so many people, but everything is different for us.”

“I mean, yeah, I go out with my friends. Everyone does. You were out last night, apparently. And you’ve gone out before,” Harry points out. “I’m sorry that I didn’t see you. We were there for a while; I’m surprised that I didn’t.”

Zayn bites his lip, refusing to admit to Harry that he fled. “It’s not about you not seeing me.”

“Then what are you talking about, Zayn, because that’s exactly what it sounds like. It sounds like you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset because you didn’t notice me.”

“Then why are you upset?” Harry asks, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, but I’m confused right now.”

Zayn takes a deep breath and tries to find all of the courage in his body to do this. He feels like murky yellow right now, not the strong, confident violet that he should be. “I’m hurt because you can so freely be with other people, but you can’t be with me. We don’t have that. We’ll never have that. And that hurts, a lot. I want to be able to be seen in public with you. I want to be with you.”

“You’re with me right now.”

“No, I mean properly. I want there to be more between us than there is.”

Harry sighs and shakes his head. “Zayn, I’m sorry, but you know how I feel about this,” Harry says, looking at Zayn carefully.

“And you know how I feel about you. You’ve always known my feelings for you, and I need to know right now if something can happen between us. Can we be more than what we are right now?”

“Zayn,” Harry starts, scratching at his jaw. “I can’t.”

Zayn takes a shaky breath but nods his head, forcing his emotions to stay in control, but his hands are shaking and he can feel the tears behind his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and controlled, but even he can hear the sadness in his works. “Then this has to end, all of it. I can’t do this anymore, I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about, Zayn?” Harry asks, and there’s a trace of panic in his voice, this quiet vibration of red, but Zayn’s refuses to cave into it.

“When I saw you last night, you looked happy. You were happy and it was out for the entire world to see, but we don’t have that. We have sex in my apartment and then you’re gone. I’ve held onto hope for so long that you would want more from me, that you would want anything from me, because I love you, Harry. I do, and I don’t say it to hear you repeat it, and I don’t say it to make you feel bad. I say it because that’s how I feel,” Zayn explains, his voice getting stronger by the second.

“Harry, I don’t know why you keep coming back to my apartment. Why you always showed up at my dorms at university, but I’ve always felt something between us, something more than you ever wanted, but it’s been there and last night… It just hit home that I’m nothing more than a dirty secret to you, and that you’re embarrassed by me. I could tell by sight that I wouldn’t fit in with your friends last night and I didn’t fit in with your friends at lunch the other day, so I get it, not wanting to bring me around them, but you don’t want to bring me anywhere, just to bed. And I can’t do that anymore.”

Harry’s looking at him, his bottom lip pressed between two of his fingers as he listens, and Zayn waits for him to say something but it never comes. He just looks at him, eyeing him with this… this thing that makes Zayn want to cry because he can’t read it. He can’t see the colors behind it and it rips at him, tearing him apart at the seams.

Harry’s not talking, so Zayn figures he might as well continue, because he’s not really finished yet.

“I thought if I wanted it enough - a relationship with you – and if I followed all of my rules, that I’d be okay. I told myself that I had to do these things, because I couldn’t jeopardize what I had with you, but I had to hold onto this glimmer of hope that you’d get over whatever problem you have with relationships for me,” Zayn says, clearing his throat as he feels his emotions rising. “I’ve never wanted to push you, not intentionally, and I’m sorry if I have, but I just wanted a reason. I just want to know why you can’t do this with me.”

It’s quiet for several minutes, the noise from the street outside his apartment filling the air, and every second that passes by is another blow to Zayn’s heart.

He nods his head carefully, rubbing at his nose. “I think you should leave, Harry. I just—I need you to go,” Zayn says, his voice cracking.

“Zayn—“ Harry starts, taking a cautious step forward.

Zayn matches him and takes a step back, shaking his head. “No, Harry, just go. Please. Just go.”

Harry’s looking at him, green eyes wide and glassy, but he nods his head. Zayn can see the shake of his hand and the way he falters with his decision when he turns away from Zayn, hesitantly trying to turn back around and say something before he stops himself and goes forward. He pauses at the door, but after a deep breath, he slips out of Zayn’s apartment quietly, and Zayn’s word is over taken with blue.

It’s like frost covering the grass in the mornings, slowly curling around each blade before everything is glistening in a glassy sheen.

This blue that’s depressing his bodily functions, making everything hurt and have to work twice as hard, but it’s futile, because it feels like nothing is working.

Zayn feels the pain slowly curling around him, the wound larger than anything he’s every felt before.

Zayn’s breath comes out in short bursts, trying to calm himself down, but he can’t.

He’s just ended something that never was, and the pain is more than he can bear, but he’ll get through it. He knows that he can, because Harry couldn’t love him – _wouldn’t_ love him – but Harry’s not the only person in this city, in this country, on this planet, and one of them is bound to love him, even if it’s not the one that he wants.

>><<

The days tick on and it doesn’t get easier. Zayn’s heartbeat feels a little broken, a sputter to it accompanied by a dull, radiating ache, but he doesn’t give in. He’d wanted to chase after Harry and tell him that he took it all back, because having the little bit of himself he was willing to give Zayn, even if he can’t have him in the way that he wanted, is better than no Harry. And he was always right to think that, because he’s miserable.

It’s the kind of miserable you feel when you’re sick, like you’re not getting enough oxygen. And your head and chest and body are constantly fighting to see what can ache and hurt the most, which wound can come out on top. It’s the kind of miserable where you’ll lay around wishing that you could go back to sleep, because anything is better than being awake. It’s the sort of miserable where it feels like nothing will be enjoyable again, because your head is so grey, so cloudy that you can only focus on the here and now and the bright burst of yellow and orange and pink that’ll come if you wait long enough, if you just get through it and let your body heal.

The only difference, Zayn’s not sick. His immune system isn’t weakened and it’s not struggling to fight out a virus or bacteria, his heart is broken.

He’s broken.

But it’s heartbreak, and people get over this everyday. Zayn just needs his time to heal.

He’ll be fine…eventually. All he needs to do is pick up the pieces and slowly glue himself back together, and he’s never going to do that if he’s lying in bed and staring at his ceiling, waiting for his next bout of sleep, so he pulls himself out of bed, showers, gets ready, and then heads out.

>><<

Zayn goes back to the bar where he first met Niall, hoping that the blond is working so he can give him the apology that he never did.

The bar is filled with more people than it was on the other nights, so Zayn has to weave the mass of bodies until he’s cramped into a tight space between a girl with tight curls and a slim waist and a guy with a hat on. There are three bartenders working right now, and he finds Niall at the other end, counting money and putting it away. He pushes off the bar and starts walking towards where he saw Niall, muttering apologies as he goes, until he’s standing in front of the register and taking a deep breath.

“Niall?” He says hesitantly, watching as the blonde’s gaze shifts up to him. He smiles, hoping to soften the surprise of visiting.

“Hey,” Niall says, nodding at him before he diverts his attention back to the money. “My shift is over, so if you want a drink you’ll have to ask one of them. I just have to finish counting this and I’m gone.”

“Right, yeah,” Zayn says, scratching at the back of his neck. “I don’t want a drink, though. I want you.” Niall looks up at him and Zayn shakes his head. “No, no. I meant that I want to talk to you.”

“Everything all right?” Niall asks, picking up a pencil and writing down a number on a pad of paper, he’s looking at Zayn carefully, jotting it down and then tucking the money away safely.

Zayn nods. “Yeah, it’s all right. I’ve just. I wanted to apologize to you for running off on our date the other night. It was rude and unacceptable, and I should have apologized sooner, but I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” Niall asks, tilting his head to the side. “Why?”

Zayn licks his lips and thinks, wanting to make sure that he keeps his reasoning simple. “When we were out, I—there was someone there that I hadn’t expected to see. I was thrown off guard, so to speak, and I just felt like I had to get out of there.”

Niall nods. “It’s okay, you know. I was just worried about you. You rushed out and then you didn’t answer any of my texts, you just ran.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” Niall says, shrugging. “But you’re okay, right?”

No, Zayn thinks, I’m not. But says, “yeah, I’m fine.” He smiles and waits a beat before saying, “Can I make it up to you?”

>><<

They go to a restaurant a couple blocks from the bar, an older place that sells seafood, mostly. It’s made of rich pinewood with large open spaces where windows should be that allows them to see the city and feel the breeze when the wind blows.

They’re sat in a booth and both of them, without glancing at the menu; order the special after the waitress lists them off for them. Zayn grins when it happens, remembering Niall’s story from the last date about how he likes to copy others orders.

“Did I make a smart choice this time?” Zayn asks, spinning his straw around in his glass.

“There’s never anything wrong with crab,” Niall says, grinning. “Especially when you’ve been munching on bar food all day. It’s excellent when you’re at home watching sports or when you’re drunk, especially when you’re drunk, but not so much when you’re trying to get through a shift. But you wouldn’t know about that, you’re a fancy artist.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Zayn says, smiling. “It’s a lot more time at home until I have a show, but I don’t really have a gallery.”

Not when my favorite canvas is a human, Zayn thinks.

“Still, it’s admirable. You know they always have that starving artist label, because people think there’s no money in art, but you’re doing it anyway. I don’t know; I like that you’re in it because you love it and not because you want the money.”

Zayn shrugs and tries not to blush. “Yeah, it’s nice. Have you always wanted to serve drinks?” Zayn’s teasing, but he wants to get to know Niall, wants to learn more about him.

“No, I write songs, but,” Niall pauses, taking a deep breath. “There’s always bumps in the road that pause your plans, and bartending is one of them. Besides, it’s not all bad. I make tips and I get to talk to people all night. I met you bartending, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Zayn agrees, smiling. “But I will say that I don’t know why you think it’s admirable what I’m doing, unlike you there’s not much money in art, not all the time, anyway.”

“So I guess we’ll both be poor for the rest of our lives, cheers,” Niall says, lifting up his glass of water and taking a sip. “But tell me, what do you do besides painting?”

Zayn mulls it over in his head, because the only thing he does besides painting is Harry, but that’s not the answer that Niall is looking for.

“I sketch, which is more for me than painting, I suppose. I like to read, and sometimes I go see my friends Danny and Ant, we listen to music. I don’t know,” Zayn says, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t really do anything special. I’m rather boring, actually.”

“Hmm,” Niall hums, nodding his head. “I think we all assume that we're a little boring. I mean, I spend most of my time at home watching movies and sporting events, and if I go out, besides to work, it’s to play golf.”

“Golf?” Zayn asks, trying not to pull a face but Niall laughs, and Zayn knows that he failed at it.

“Yeah, it’s actually really fun,” Niall says and grins,

Zayn shrugs, because golf wouldn’t be for him, never in a million years, but he remembers a few years ago when Harry took it up, how excited Harry had been about buying special clothes for it and getting all the gear. Zayn remembers the smile on his face when he rushed to Zayn’s apartment after the first day and talked about it talked about it for an hour while Zayn painted his hips. He showed Zayn videos, and he was better at it than he was other sports, but it made Harry happy so golf became important to him on principle.

He sighs, absently twirling his straw around in his water and trying to fight off the sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of Harry.

He’s watching the movement of the water in his glass when he remembers that he’s out, he’s out with Niall, and his eyes go wide, turning to look at Niall. “I’m so sorry.”

Niall smiles. “You checked out for a while there, you all right?” Niall questions, watching Zayn carefully as he unwraps his napkin, placing it in his lap, his voice is laced with concern and Zayn’s gut churns in guilt, because he’s trying to enjoy his time with Niall, but he keeps thinking about Harry. It’s not fair, but it’s hard to

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry,” Zayn says and smiles, hoping it appeases Niall.

“Anything interesting on your mind?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says and nods. “Golf, actually.”

And when Niall laughs, it’s with his head thrown back and mouth open wide, this loud cackle leaving his mouth, and Zayn is reminded, briefly, of Harry’s snort laugh, the one he does when he really finds something unexpectedly funny, covering his mouth to try cover it up, but Zayn never misses it, always relishing in the sound. He pushes the memory to the back of his mind and tries to focus his attention on his date.

>><<

 

Somehow, his date with Niall goes better than he ever expected it to. Niall’s funny and listens, wanting to know more about Zayn than he’s ready to give at this point, but Niall makes it easy to open up. It had been a fun night, but Zayn still wasn’t at the point where he was ready to let Harry go completely and he wasn’t at the point where he could get his mind to cooperate and to stop thinking about Harry every second of every day.

It’s difficult when you’ve been in love with someone for a fourth of your life, when you’ve been with them, and shared yourself with them so completely.

He wishes there was a way he could clean out his memories, like a computer’s hard drive, erase it all and start over completely, but he can’t. And something about the thought of losing Harry entirely, losing those memories and those feelings deep within his heart that Harry has engraved there, that sounds more like heart break than anything else.

It helps that he’s painting, newspapers lay out on his floor with a canvas on top of it as he tries to channel out his inner feelings. He had started out using a brush, but the feel of his fingers against the fabric of the surface feels raw, more intimate, because he’s painting the way Harry has made him feel in this moment, the cold rejection icing his veins laid out all on the canvas.

He started out with blues and pinks, laying them out and mixing them together, his finger swiping through them and creating soft curves, his hands gliding smoothly across the surface. He added bursts of white and streaks of pale orange like the glowing sun before it sets in the sky, trying to capture the way he feels about Harry in the colors of his paints, but the more he paints, the more he starts to feel the rest of it, the resentment that Harry could use him but never wanted to be with him. The pain of loving someone who will never love you back, the raw feeling of his heart being ripped open and shattered on the ground.

Zayn’s positive feelings feel suffocated under the wound, so he grabs the black tube of paint and splatters it out on the canvas, using his feelings to mix the black with the other colors, covering them up and blocking them out.

He paints like this for hours, adding layer after layer of paint on top of the canvas, sometimes scraping bits off and adding new parts, continuing the process of trying to map out the complexity of his inner workings as he paints.

There’s a knock at his door and it takes a moment to calm the wild feeling in his chest so he can swipe his hands on his paint-stained jeans. He stands carefully, cocking his head to the side to inspect his painting for a moment before he walks blindly to the door.

The painting is missing something, but he’s not sure what. Not yet.

He looks through the peephole and sees Harry; he’s dressed in tight jeans and a thick cable knit sweater. Zayn takes a deep breath, resting his head against the barrier and feels the vibrations as Harry knocks again.

Zayn wants to rip the door open and tell Harry to fuck off, because he was being serious the other night when he said that he couldn’t do this anymore. He wasn’t just talking about the unrequited feelings and the way that Harry sleeps with him despite knowing how Zayn feels, despite knowing what Zayn wants from him, how Zayn feels about him and how it might be hurting Zayn to be strung along.

He was serious with what he told Harry and he wants to open the door, he really does, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a deep breath, counts backwards from ten in his head and then walks away.

With shaky hands, he squeezes more black paint on the canvas and goes back to work, ignoring the sounds of Harry’s knocking on the door.

>><<

“Another excellent meal choice by Mr. Zayn Malik,” Niall teases, pushing open the restaurant door for Zayn.

Zayn smiles at him and zips his jacket, it’s abnormally cool out, and it’s almost refreshing to feel the bite of the wind against his cheeks as they walk. It was Niall’s idea to walk, choosing to park his car on the other side of the city park so that they would have a scenic route, something to enjoy before they ate and after. He has to admit that it was a good idea, enjoying the fairy lights strung along the walkways, creating a soft orange glow, like the one that follows Niall around.

“It’s hard to mess up a meal choice when you’re at a burger place.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Niall says, grinning. He knocks his shoulder against Zayn’s. “I enjoyed tonight. I was surprised when you called asking if I wanted to go out again, if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

Niall shrugs. “I don’t know. You had fun last time, I could tell that much, but you seemed to have a lot on your mind. I figured that, if we were to go out again, that it would be me calling you.”

“Well, I’m glad that I proved you wrong. I really do enjoy going out with you.”

“Me too, me too,” Niall says, sighing.

Zayn doesn’t say anything back, content to walk in silence and enjoy Niall’s company without the need for words. Niall seems on the same page, because when Zayn turns to look at him, he’s staring at the tree line. As Zayn turns away, he feels Niall’s hand bump against his before their hands are locked together, fingers intertwined. His stomach flips, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the contact, liking Niall enough to know that this is okay, or if there is something else going on with him.

They walk in silence until they’re back at Niall’s car where he’s forced to let go of Zayn’s hand. He’s fiddling with his car keys, swinging them around in his fingers before he sighs. He’s got his hand on the door, ready to open it, and Zayn’s standing close to him, waiting until Niall turns. He’s closer to Niall than he originally realized, their chests inches apart and he releases a deep breath, because he can see it in Niall’s eyes that he wants to kiss him. He licks his lips subconsciously, Niall’s eyes tracking the movement and then there’s a soft hand against his jaw, brushing against his stubble, and then…

Niall’s kissing him, and something is igniting in his stomach as kissing tends to do, a steady tug as their lips move together, but it’s not like… It’s not like with Harry.

Niall’s lips are thin and cracked, scraping against Zayn’s a little whereas Harry’s are plump and soft, almost wet. Niall’s hands stay in one spot, cupping his jaw while Harry’s are constantly moving, tugging at his hair, gripping his waist, cupping his jaw and holding his hips in place. Kissing Niall is the opposite of kissing Harry, there’s no electric feeling buzzing through his veins like bolts of lightning, lighting up every nerve under his skin. He can feel something, but it’s softer, lighter, and Zayn chalks it up to the fact that kissing Niall is new. Kissing Niall is something that he’s never done before, not like the perfected art he had with Harry, but that doesn’t make the kiss any less enjoyable.

Zayn’s attracted to Niall and he’s only human, so of course the kiss is good, and he can feel his body responding in the appropriate ways, but Zayn’s not used to being kissed in public, and something about it makes him want to shy away, so he pulls away, breaking apart breathlessly.

Opening his eyes, he sees Niall grinning at him, pretty white teeth on display and thumb still stroking his jaw. He smiles back, pinching Niall’s hip in response.

“Was that okay?” Niall asks softly.

Zayn nods. “More than okay, yeah.”

Niall smiles at that, leaning forward to kiss Zayn once more. “Do you want me to take you home or do you want to go back to mine?” Niall asks, but Zayn hears it for what it really is, Niall asking him if he wants to take things further than this or wait.

He bites his lips and nods his head, knowing that it doesn’t answer Niall’s question, but it’s all he can give him right now. His palms are sweating and his tongue feels heavy, but he still manages to get out, “Yours. Let’s go to yours.”

“You sure? No pressure, honestly. Say no if you want to.”

“No, I’m sure,” Zayn says, and he finds that he’s telling the truth.

>><<

The car ride is quiet but the air is heavy, faint traces of crimson and a pearly purple wrapping around them. Zayn can feel some of the energy rolling off of Niall, but not overwhelmingly, not enough to know fully how much Niall wants this or how badly. He can’t read him, can’t feel him like he can…

Niall’s apartment, as it turns out, is a ten-minute walk from Zayn’s place. He lives across the street from the supermarket that Zayn frequents, the one that he saw Niall at. It gives him a sense of security to know that no matter what happens he can slip out of Niall’s apartment and make it home without worrying about a cab.

Zayn’s skin is itching in anticipation, watching as Niall unlocks his door, shoves it open and allows Zayn inside.

It’s a nice apartment, clean and modern. Everything is sleek lines and edges, black and white with guitars hung on the wall and propped in the corners. The television is huge, but Zayn remembers that Niall talked about how he enjoyed staying at home and watching television and watching sports more than he does going out. Zayn is taking in the copious amounts of leather furniture when he feels Niall’s hand on the small of his back, thumb stroking at the fabric of his shirt, and slowly turning him around so that they’re facing each other.

When Niall kisses him, the questions he had about where this is going are answered. The kiss is sloppy, wet and all pretenses that nothing was going to happen has been thrown out the window, because Niall is walking him backwards until Zayn’s back hits the wall.

Zayn tries to focus on kissing Niall; the feel of their chests pressed together, but his mind keeps flashing red warnings signs, telling him that this isn’t Harry. His mind keeps telling him that this is wrong, because it’s not who he wants it to be. It’s wrong because he’s not over Harry; he’s not ready to do something that might mean more to someone else than it does to him.

He fights to keep the thoughts of his mind, fights to get rid of the image of Harry, but he can’t, and it’s all too much for him.

Zayn pushes away from Niall gently, breaking the kiss and muttering apologies the second that Niall pulls away.

“I’m so sorry,” Zayn says, slipping away from Niall. He’s pacing, staring at the ground and running his fingers through his hair. “I can’t do this, I’m so sorry.”

“Zayn, it’s all right,” Niall mutters, stepping forward and gripping onto Zayn’s arm, forcing him to stop moving and to look at Niall. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything. We can just watch a movie or something, it’s all right.”

“No,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “I can’t do this, like, any of it. Nothing.”

Niall looks at him for a moment, releasing the grip on Zayn’s arm and taking a step back. Zayn can see the thoughts flashing across Niall’s eyes, he can see as he process the information that Zayn has laid out for him, some of it in his words but most of it hidden in his features. The way his eyebrows are knitted together, his bottom lip pressed between his teeth, and the shake of his hands.

“It’s that friend you went to the bar about, isn’t it?” Niall asks and there’s no malice to his voice, no edge that gives away his annoyances about the situation, just genuine curiosity.

Zayn nods, because there’s not point in lying, even if he is a little shocked at how perceptive Niall is. “Yeah. Kind of in love with him, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately, huh?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Wasn’t going to make you,” Niall says, shrugging his shoulders.

Zayn nods, releasing a deep breath. “I’m really sorry. I wasn’t trying to lead you on. I thought,” he says, shaking his head, “I don’t know what I thought, but I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Niall says, rubbing Zayn’s back gently.

“I should go, but I’m so, so sorry,” Zayn mumbles, not looking at Niall as he stumbles out of the apartment. He hears Niall tell him not to worry about it, and it makes him feel worse to know that Niall is being so understanding with him. And he hates Harry a little more for ruining this for him, hates himself because it’s his fault, mostly, not Harry’s.

>><<

Zayn walks home, hands shoved in his pockets and his head held down. He bumps into a few people, muttering apologies, but he doesn’t look at them, just keeps walking.

He feels awful for running out on Niall, mostly he just feels terrible that he doesn’t know how to move on with his life. It’s not without lack of trying, because he is, even in minuscule ways, but every fiber of his being is telling him that he shouldn’t give up on Harry, that he can’t give up on Harry.

It’s not surprising, but it weighs down on him, his bones heavy with guilt as he rounds the corner to his apartment. He makes a promise that he’s going to get back in touch with Niall when he’s healed properly; maybe they can be friends sometime down the line, if Niall even still wants that.

Zayn sighs, digging his keys out of his pocket as he approaches his apartment. Sitting on his stairs, wrapped tightly in a jacket with a mess of curls moving wildly in the wind, is Harry. He drops his keys on the ground, making Harry’s head snap up to look at him. He stands there, frozen and unsure of how he should be reacting because it’s Harry and he’s here, standing up slowly and smiling at Zayn hesitantly.

His hands are shaking, fidgeting and sweating as he bends over to pick up his keys. He takes a deep breath and approaches Harry carefully, biting on his bottom lip.

“I, um. I tried to come over a few days ago, did you know?” Harry asks and Zayn nods. “I thought so. I wanted to talk to you.”

Zayn swallows. “What do you want, Harry?” He tries to sound like he’s unaffected by the sight of Harry, but he fails something miserable.

“I saw you out with that blond the other night and then again tonight in the park.”

“I didn’t see you,” Zayn replies, biting back the apology that threatens to slip out. He's done nothing wrong and he has nothing to be sorry for. 

Harry nods. “Yeah, I know,” he says, he shakes the curls out of his eyes, and digs his hands further into his pockets. “Can we talk? Inside?”

“No,” Zayn says, shaking his head, because he’s not willing to budge on this and give Harry what he wants.

“Right, okay,” Harry says, nodding his head in understanding. “Well, I wanted to see you the other day, because I um. I think I understand it all now, better than I did before.”

“Understand what?”

“What you were feeling, how you felt with everything that I put you through. And I’m sorry,” Harry says, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth and a worried expression on his face.

Zayn sighs. “What do you want me to say? That you’re forgiven? And it’s fine, invite you in so you can fuck me before going back to your life? Because I’m not going to do that, not this time.”

“No, that’s not what I’m asking of you. I’m not asking anything of you but to just listen, please.”

“Why? Why should I listen to you?” Zayn asks, even though he wants to, he does, but he’s so exhausted of this entire thing, their relationship has completely drained him and run him dry. There’s only so much a person can take and Zayn has reached his limit.

Harry’s shaking his head and his brows knitted together.

“The other day, after we got into that fight about you wanting to see a movie and me telling you no, I had done some thinking. I thought about it for a while, your expectations and hopes about what was happening between the two of us, and I realized that you deserved more, so that’s why I took you to lunch.”

“Yeah, spectacular job on that front.”

“I know you’re angry that my friends interrupted us and I did nothing to stop them, did nothing to include you, and I should have told them to fuck off. I know that. I do, and I wanted to, but I just kept thinking about how if I didn’t allow them to sit with us, they’d suspect something, something that I wasn’t ready to share with the world, and I got scared, so I let it all happen.”

“Harry, you’re all I want, just you. And I can’t share you anymore. Everything you give to me, you give to others, and I can’t… I just can’t. It’s obvious that I’m not what you want, so I meant it when I said that I couldn’t do this anymore and that this is over.”

“You don’t get it do you?”

Zayn sighs and shakes his head. “What is there to get?”

“I was scared. Terrified, actually.”

“Of what?” Zayn shouts, placing his hand over his mouth, glancing around to make sure that they haven’t attracted attention. “Stop talking in riddles and, for once, tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me what you mean. You’re always saying that you can’t, but you never actually tell me what that means. And now, you keep saying that you’re scared, but what does that mean?”

“Of you.”

Harry’s admission confuses Zayn, because…why? Why would Harry be afraid of him. What does he have to be afraid of?

Almost as if reading his mind, Harry continues, “You scare me Zayn, not you, but how you make me feel, the things you make me want. You make me want to give up the world, pack up my bags, move out of my apartment, leave everyone behind and buy a house in the suburbs, into some shitty, snooty neighborhood where I drive a mini-van instead of an Audi. God, I want a shitty desk job where I’m fucking miserable and I spend all day staring at pictures of you and our children – I want children with you, three or five, with your eyes and your hair and your lips and your complexion and amazing bone structure and… my last name, that’s it. And it’s like this because my day cannot, physically cannot get better until I’m back at home with you. And that’s fucking terrifying,” Harry says, gripping at the hair at the base of his forehead, staring at Zayn intently.

“It’s terrifying because I can’t imagine my life without you, I can’t. That time without you after college was horrible; I tried to be with other people. I did, but it never made me want you any less. Then I saw you in that bar and it was like… the Earth shifted back into place, you know? And I don’t know what I would do if you tried to leave again,” Harry admits, his eyes taking on a hint of sadness, this unmistakable ocean blue to them.

“I’ve been miserable and it’s my fault, all of it, but I didn’t know what to do. You don’t want to share me with the world, and I don’t want to share you, either. But this is new territory for me, it feels like I’m out of my skin, and I’m not like you, I can’t just jump into this…this place that we’ve been dancing around for years. I don’t know. I took advantage of the fact that you’d always be here and I’ve treated you poorly for so long and I’m so sorry,” Harry finishes, huffing out a breath.

Zayn doesn’t know what to say, what to feel, what to think, so he just looks at Harry, takes in his disheveled, dirty hair and his unkempt clothing. He looks awful, like he hasn’t been sleeping or taking care of himself. Zayn knows that’s a sign that a lot has been on Harry’s mind. He was like this in university, always a proper mess when exam season rolled around and he’d lug a bag of books to Zayn’s dorm for studying.

Zayn sighs and says, “You know that I love you, right?” because it’s the only thing that comes to mind, the only thing that encompasses how he really feels about Harry.

Harry nods and bites his lip.

Zayn sighs once more and takes careful steps around Harry to his front door, shoving the key in the slot and getting it open. As he steps into his apartment, he turns to see that Harry’s just watching him, confusion and a hint of red-laced panic etched on his face, but he’s not moving.

“Are you coming?” Zayn asks.

>><<

Zayn waits until the door clicks shut behind Harry before he removes his shoes, toeing them off quietly and shrugging off his jacket, hanging it on the hook on the wall. He nods his head, motioning for Harry to do the same. He waits patiently, because truth be told, he’s enjoying the nervous glances that Harry keeps shooting him as he trips out of his boots, his elbow snagging on his jacket when he tries to shrug it off.

Everything that Harry said to him outside struck a different nerve in his body, lighting them up, and restarting them. He can feel the knots in his muscles and stomach loosen, feel as the restraints around his heart begin to lessen, allowing it to beat appropriately and without pain. He’s still hurt, still confused, and a little unsure, but he can feel the sincerity vibrating off of Harry, the sheer hope behind his eyes in this unadulterated green, like fresh grass in a meadow.

There are still so many questions to ask, so many words unspoken, but Zayn can feel Harry and he knows that the words he spoke were true, and it’s sparked something inside of him.

He crowds Harry’s space when he’s finally finished with his shoes and jacket, pressing him against the wall and dragging him to his bedroom simultaneously, kissing him fiercely. He’s gripping Harry’s wrist and his hip, tripping over his feet as they stumble to the bedroom while Harry tugs at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over Zayn’s head and then removing his own, throwing them carelessly across the apartment.

Zayn let’s Harry pull away so they can remove their pants and boxers before they’re crawling under his duvet. His heart is hammering against his chest, fighting to break out from the feel of Harry’s fingers against his ribs, stroking the skin gently.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Harry whispers quietly.

“We do,” Zayn agrees, thumb reaching out to stroke along Harry’s jaw.

“So are you sure that you want to do this? We don’t have to, that’s really not why I came by here tonight,” Harry explains quietly. “I want us to do more when I come over, like talk, share meals, watch crappy television, everything that people do when they’re properly together; if that’s something you want.”

“I’ve wanted that for years, Harry.”

Harry frowns, his expression sad. “I know.”

“Come here,” Zayn whispers, sliding his hand from Harry’s jaw to his shoulder, gently coaxing him onto his back. He swings a leg over Harry’s hips and straddles him, sitting on his thighs, just below his dick. “If you’re as serious about me as I am about you, serious about the three or five kids, the shitty suburbs, the horrible desk job, and the mini-van, then there will be plenty of time for talking, because I plan on holding onto you for as long as I can.”

Harry sighs, a deep shaky breath and nods his head, sliding his hands from Zayn’s thighs up to his hips. He’s still nodding his head, like he’s trying to accept the fact that Zayn opened his door for him so soon.

Zayn leans down and kisses him slowly, softly, waiting until he feels Harry sigh against his lips before he’s pressing down harder. It’s exactly like he thought about when he was kissing Niall, Harry’s hands dragging across every inch of skin that he can, tugging at the hairs on the back of his neck and shifting his hips around underneath Zayn’s.

Harry’s unable to keep still.

Zayn feels his stomach flip a little - a lot - at the feeling of Harry underneath him, shifting his hips up to try and get an ounce of friction. Zayn just holds him down, pinning his hips to the bed, forcing Harry to take what he gives.

He’s still resting on Harry’s thighs, bent over him, so it’s easy to drag his hands down to grip Harry firmly, stroking him slowly and swiping the pad of his thumb across Harry’s slit. He feels as Harry shivers huge body shakes that leave him breathless and groaning.

Zayn loves seeing Harry like this, the Harry that gives himself up to Zayn, the one trapped beneath him gasping into the quiet of the apartment. Harry’s not one for keeping quiet and Zayn’s not one to hush the sounds of him coming undone. His skin is flushed and warm, and Zayn can feel the white-hot heat slowly burning through Harry’s skin and into his own.

“Can we - can you… Fuck,” Harry groans, trying to shift his hips up. “Zayn.”

“Yeah, all right.” Zayn shifts around so he’s off Harry, leaning over the edge of the bed to rummage through his top drawer. He can feel Harry’s hands on him, stroking him carefully and Zayn has to rest his head on his arm, biting at the skin before he continues his search. “I don’t have any condoms,” Zayn breathes, cursing in his head, wanting to slam his fist on the bed repeatedly. The drawer is empty except for a bottle of lube that Harry brought over not that long ago. He doesn’t even remember using the last condom.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” Harry says, breathless, fist still moving.

Zayn bites his lip and looks at him. “Harry, I um. Are you, like? Is it safe?”

Harry looks at him and sighs, nodding his head. “Believe it or not, I haven’t been with anyone else.” Zayn’s looking at him in disbelief and he can see the hurt in Harry’s eyes. “I figured you wouldn’t either. But yeah, it’s safe.”

“What about the marks on your skin? I’ve seen them before. If you’ve not been with anyone then what are those?”

“My friends,” Harry says, trailing off with a shrug of his shoulders. “There was nothing sexual; it’s just a thing that happens sometimes.”

Zayn frowns and says, “I don’t like it.”

“Then it won’t happen again,” Harry says, honestly and earnestly.

Zayn nods, it eases his mind only a little, but he trusts Harry and knows that after years of having sex together, he wouldn’t lie to him now about something like this. Zayn sighs and shifts around, forcing Harry’s hand off his cock so he can slick up his fingers and working them inside Harry.

He works Harry open leisurely, taking his time with each finger. He presses in slowly, letting his finger sink in knuckle-by-knuckle before he’s twisting and turning, rubbing against Harry’s prostate in concise little circles. Harry’s eyelids keep slumping as he lets out these choked, high-pitched whines, scratching at the bed sheets and whining out Zayn’s name over and over again like a prayer.

When he feels Harry reach that point of desperation, when his forehead is lined with sweat and his cock is physically throbbing, Zayn pulls his fingers out of him, rubbing them out on the sheets before he’s slicking himself up and sliding into position.

“Last chance to change your mind,” Zayn says, not wanting to fuck Harry without a condom if he’s not fully committed to the situation, doesn’t want to cross any boundaries that can’t be reversed.

“I’m good,” Harry says, propping himself up on his elbows. “But I want to switch places.”

“What do you mean?” Zayn asks, allowing Harry to shove him onto his back. He’s propped up, too many pillows beneath his back, but Harry’s shaking his head, pushing on Zayn’s chest as he crawls over his lap.

And Zayn has about a five second warning, watching as Harry grabs the base of his cock, before everything about him feels numb, his fingers and his toes. Harry’s wrapped around him in this velvety warm heat that feels like home in the winter.

Harry wastes no time, never one for being patient, before he’s moving his hips, lifting himself up and dropping back down, letting his ass hit Zayn’s hips, moving them in circles before he lifts back up.

Zayn’s not sure what he loves more, the feeling of his cock or being able to see as he disappears inside of him, getting lost in where one of them begins and the other ends.

Harry’s clawing at Zayn’s chest, gasping out words that leave him clenching around Zayn, muttering things like, “so fucking good, so fucking-“ and “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Zayn’s stomach is twisting and knotting as he grips Harry at the base, working his fist quickly as he chokes off a warning. Harry nods his head and grinds down, shifting his hips in circles and leaning down to kiss Zayn quickly and wetly, this sloppy mess of their tongues and their breath as a deep guttural groan spills out of his lips when he comes.

“Fuck,” Zayn chokes out from the feeling of Harry spasming around him and the feeling of his own orgasm ripping through him, pulling out of him and into Harry.

>><<

Harry’s asleep, lying on top of the blankets and giving Zayn access to every inch of his skin to paint on, but he doesn’t need much. This time, unlike other times, he’s leaning over Harry and painting over the patch of skin on his chest covering his heart.

He’s been out for a while, Zayn needing the time to carefully select the colors of Harry’s heart and the colors of his emotions. The palate isn’t very broad, rich reds and deep blues, mixing into purple and traces of pink. He uses white to soften the colors, wanting to emphasize his own feelings of affection towards Harry.

The colors are a cliché, but they’re speaking to Zayn in a way that tugs at his heart and makes it feel like he’s connecting to Harry, the paints creating a sealed bond. The painting is Zayn’s form of marking Harry’s skin in temporary ways, but the gesture is there for always, even after it’s washed away.

When he’s switching colors, dabbing a small amount of red paint on his finger, he sees that Harry is awake and watching him, arms tucked behind his head.

Zayn continues painting, little wispy strokes that leaving a curling affect, so unlike the black painting he did the other day that’s propped in the corner of the room. He makes a note to do another, to turn it into a series to show the progression of his feelings when he gets the time.

He lifts his hands away to admire his work, staring at the colors that are bleeding together in a curled, inter-locking pattern and sighs, because the paint on Harry’s skin, for once, doesn’t do his emotions and feelings justice. They’re too weak and Zayn feels like he’s going to burst, but the paint doesn’t show that. It doesn’t show the relief and the worry and everything else swirling around inside of Zayn and everything that he feels coming off Harry.

But it’s enough.

When Zayn pulls away, slipping back to his side of the bed to put his paints away so Harry can shower, he’s surprised when Harry stops him by gripping his wrist, forcing him to turn back at look at him.

“Come on,” Harry says, tugging at Zayn until he’s off the bed. He slides his grip from Harry’s wrist down until their fingers are interlocked, using his freehand to start the shower.

Zayn watches in confusion and awe as Harry slips into the shower and pulls him with him, sharing the space underneath the spray of water.

The paint’s disappearing down his shower drain and Zayn’s chest burns at the sight, wondering if it’s some kind of representation of what’s to come, like Harry slipping into a change of clothes and out of Zayn’s apartment, his confession forgotten and untrue. There’s a lump in his throat as he stares down at his and Harry’s feet, watching the colors lap around them before disappearing. He wants to get out of the shower, but Harry’s brushing at his jaw, gently tilting his head up until they’re staring into each other’s eyes.

When Zayn looks at him, everything is different. And when Harry kisses him, he whispers that he loves Zayn, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.alnimawrites.tumblr.com) if you want to yell at me about this or anything :).


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